


Black Ivory

by gentlepigeon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Hermione Granger, Desi Harry Potter, Draco is a coffee snob, Draco is a petty HOE, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, References to Shakespeare, Slow Burn, adopted lesbian mothers, harry is a radio host, references to the american midwest, romance and friendship with a dash of political gain, the slowest fucking burn, useless aurors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2019-12-30 23:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18297779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlepigeon/pseuds/gentlepigeon
Summary: Draco Malfoy lives in Nowhere, Scotland, thanks to some bloody Auror relocation program. It's going to be miserable, he can just feel it. The aurors won't deliver his furniture, the press keeps making a fuss, the Wizengamot makes only the worst decisions, and on top of it all, his new home smells like piss. Luckily, his newly adopted mothers will stop at nothing to indoctrinate Draco into the goings-on of their small town, particularly when it involves this other boy they've 'rescued.'





	1. Blue Mountain

Aurors, Draco decided, could go piss on Merlin’s wand. All of them. Collectively. Make it a circle piss.

“Aurors Aid Former Death Eater in Relocation Project” the Prophet headline read. He closed his eyes, peeked again. It stayed the same. Right in the center Draco shook hands with Weasley. In a transparent attempt to keep his identity secret, his facial features had been blurred. Of course, that did nothing to obscure his white blond hair, his impeccable robes, the _Malfoy crest facing the camera._ Bloody Aurors had told him his identity could remain private.

The caption read: “Despite torture of his Fiancée, Hermione Granger, at the residence of this former Death Eater, Junior Auror Ronald Weasley magnanimously offers him a second chance.”

It was common knowledge that Voldemort used Malfoy Manor as his headquarters. And since Skeeter had published that ‘biography’ on Harry Potter, the wide Wizarding World knew Granger had been tortured there.

Lucius would be furious. He hated being _reminded_.

And there was the small problem that Draco hadn’t told his father about asking the aurors for a flat. Draco had been arranging to move away from the manor since his two-year house arrest ended. Six months since then, and he had an ugly flat to show for it. It was Friday. Lucius thought Draco was visiting Blaise. And Blaise was well acquainted with many young ladies, especially pure-blooded ladies, and especially Pansy. Lucius almost raised both eyebrows when Draco told him of his plans. That meant he was ecstatic.

Draco sighed and nearly incinerated the paper, then thought better of it. He needed a physical copy to threaten Weasley with. Instead, he simply set it on the table. It was an ugly folding card table, one of the four pieces of furniture _magnanimously_ provided by Junior Auror Weasley and his compassionate team of aurors. The Relocation Initiative for Former Supporters (REFS) approached him a month ago with two options: suck its cock or humiliate himself further, and Draco had never enjoyed being humiliated. Turns out, sucking its cock had given him a cushy little flat in Merlin-knows-where Scotland that smelled like piss. Supposedly it would be better than dealing with gossip magazines back at the Manor.

At least there was a storefront downstairs and a floo. REFS also offered employment for their ‘cases.’ Draco was going to start a coffee shop. With any luck the Scots would appreciate fine coffee when they saw it.

The floo rang, stirring Draco from his thoughts. It was Mr. Magnanimous, Junior Auror Weasley.

“Malfoy!” He greeted, smiling professionally. “I trust you’ve seen the paper?”

Professional wasn’t a good look on him. “Good morning. How did you get my floo address?”

“I sold you the place,” He said, looking like he was making a real effort to keep from rolling his eyes.

Draco nodded. “But still dreadfully rude to call without asking. A real faux pas, even for you,”

Weasley opened his mouth to object.

“That wasn’t a dig at your mother, just at you. Percival and Charles have wonderful manners,” Draco let the hint of a smug smile creep onto his face. “And I’m not in the mood for talking politics, so if this isn’t a social call I’ll be very disappointed. How is your fiancee?”

“Er, great, thanks. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Malfoy, but–”

“One moment,” Draco said. He summoned his French press and Blue Mountain beans. He didn’t need any more bitterness this morning, so the Jamaican Arabica was perfect. Weasley fidgeted as Draco ground the beans with a charm and poured them into the press. Using a modified _Auguamenti_ he filled the press with nearly boiling water, then stirred the mixture with his wand. Draco liked to put a little bit of magic in his morning coffee. It made him feel like a renowned potions master. He set a timer for four minutes precisely. Weasley looked ready to implode and cast subtle _Tempus_ charms every two seconds. Draco kept his smirk to himself as he pushed the press down, trapping the crushed beans in the bottom of the contraption. He summoned a mug and poured his coffee into it. After an excruciatingly slow sip (Weasley’s eye twitched!), Draco was ready. “Disappoint me, please,”

“I trust you’ve seen the Prophet this morning?”

“No,” Draco said, making sure Weasley could see the paper he was using as a coaster.

“In that case, I would like to extend a formal apology on behalf of the Auror department that your image was taken and produced without your express consent, and–”

“You must have heard me wrong,” Draco summoned a bottle of cheap firewhisky, then poured about half a shot’s worth into his coffee. “I have not simply seen the paper. I have skimmed it and drawn the conclusion that whoever wrote it will receive several anonymous letters asking them to consider work they would be more suited to, like spying on people in the shower. After all, they seem quite interested in invading others’ privacy,”

Weasley sputtered, possibly enraged, possibly choking down a laugh. The green hue of the floo made it rather difficult to tell.

“Good day, Weasley.” Draco said, face carefully blank.

Mr. Magnanimous’s mouth opened, and words came out, but they were silenced by the roar of the closing floo.

Draco took a long sip of his coffee. It tasted rushed. Of course, that could just be the smell of piss seeping into his daily life.

It was time to begin cleaning. “ _Scourgify!_ ” Draco shouted, pointing his wand at an entire wall. It turned grey. It was disconcerting to know it was supposed to be even more discolored. At least the stain disappeared. Merlin, it might be better to just tear the whole place down and rebuild. Maybe that way he could build furniture into the flat rather than rely on a crusty card table, single folding chair, beige sofa, and television stand. There was no television. He could transfigure it into more tasteful furnishings, but everyone knew transfigured items were vastly inferior. Besides, REFS had said his shipment would arrive within the week. Draco could stand a few days in squalor.

Speaking of squalor, he received a muggle appliance catalogue on his doorstep yesterday. He picked it up, then spent the next half hour on the musty sofa circling different ones and imagining their functions. The engenuity of muggles, if nothing else, was admirable.

The back page of the catalogue stared at him. Draco _incendio_ -ed it, then dropped the ashes out his window into the back alley. They landed on some sort of black muggle box. He checked to make sure no muggles were around, then summoned it up. It was a clunky thing, black with dials and lines and a few holes. It also appeared to be smashed in several places. Lovely. Draco could feel a kinship with it.

The device was obviously the muggle version of a radio. It also showed the time. Or at least he assumed it would once it was fixed. Draco tinkered with the contraption for the two hours until lunch, then skipped lunch and tinkered more. It wasn’t like he could really buy anything anyways. There wasn’t a Gringotts in Merlin’s Armpit, Scotland where he could exchange his galleons for pounds and ounces or whatever.

Fixing things was something Draco considered a talent of his, and a remarkably Slytherin one at that. One might argue that fixing was something a Ravenclaw might enjoy, or even a Hufflepuff. Draco argued that fixing required precision, ambition, and calculation. A Ravenclaw would soon lose track of purpose and simply explore the object. A Hufflepuff didn’t even have the mental capacity. To repair, one must have an agenda in mind. One must know exactly what he wants and how to get it. For that reason, Draco was a Slytherin.

The floo rang again.

“Malfoy!” A familiar green-cast ginger opened.

Draco didn’t look up. “Weasley,”

“The person who wrote the article, in case you didn’t know, is Orion N Ager. He lives in Chelsea and his residence isn’t at all warded against owls from strangers. In case you were wondering,”

“In case I was wondering,” Draco repeated.

Weasley nodded. “Or an anonymous acquaintance,”

Draco nearly smiled at him. “I shall tell my anonymous acquaintance at once. Thank you, Weasley.”

He ended the floo on Junior Auror Ronald Weasley’s surprised face. One would think he’d never been thanked for a service before. Granger was obviously slacking.

He rummaged around in his expanded bag for parchment and a pen. The first letter he wrote told his dear friend Mr. Ager to apply for a job transfer. The second was a lovely flowchart of what would happen if someone were to ruin his reputation. It started with a Rita Skeeter exposé and ended with him spying on innocent men in the shower. Draco had always figured it was best to insinuate strangers were bent, since if they weren’t they would be paranoid about emasculation and if they were, they would be paranoid that someone found out. Either way, it struck them in a vulnerable place. Even Draco would be somewhat unnerved if he received an anonymous letter that confirmed his sexuality.

Blaise had always said it was obvious once you knew where to look.

Draco had always said anyone could tell Blaise liked both from a mile away.

The third letter was a detailed drawing of an arsehole. An arrow pointed to it. The arrow was labeled ‘you.’

He duplicated it and stuck the copy on the wall behind him.

Such actions were petulant and below him, but Draco didn’t really care. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and Mr. Ager was in for it.

Draco’s doorbell rang downstairs. He cursed under his breath, then mentally prepared himself for the journey through the empty shop.

Turns out, he only tripped over three objects on the way to the door.

A pimply teenaged boy stood on the step. “Package for a Mr. Drake Mallard?”

Draco sighed. “That would be me.” He grabbed the pen from the boy and drew squiggles on the reciept.

“Here’s your package, sir.” The boy awkwardly handed the large box to him.

“Thank you,” Draco said, slamming the door.

Of all the awful names they could have picked for him… he had to be Mr. Male Duck Duck? He sounded like a cartoon character on some muggle show for children. Bloody aurors. Couldn’t even be trusted to preserve a simple man’s dignity.

Draco set the box on the floor of the shop. A cloud of dust arose. Draco conjured curtains for the display windows, then _scourgify_ -ed the floor. It was still a dingy grey, but at least it was no longer dusty.

Inside the box was various coffee paraphernalia: a couple presses, some kettles, a few mugs, a live miniature coffee tree. The real coffee would have to wait until the whole design-scenario had been dealt with.

The muggle radio and his gripes with the ministry and the prophet disapparated as Draco begun the process of cleaning up the empty store.

Cleaning with magic was simple, but adding the proper appliances was another matter. It would be difficult charm-work to weave in spells that would allow his brewing to harness magical energy, but in such a way that the muggles would never think something was amiss.

A sharp knock on the front door had Draco scrabbling for his wand. Luckily, it was in his back pocket. In his _jeans._

The person knocked again.

Draco opened the door and began to greet them, but the person waltzed right in.

“Hello?” Draco tried. She dressed like a factory worker from the 1940s and fit the physical description, besides being around sixty years old and uncommonly short. Her brown hair was pulled into a loose ponytail at the back of her neck.

“Heya!” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Campbell. Aila Campbell,”

He took it. It was dusty. Her warm eyes crinkled, betraying years of crows feet in the corners.

“How long you plan to be here?”

Draco looked at her blankly, not wanting to give her an answer she didn’t like.

“That’s as good an answer as any,” She had a thick Scottish accent. “Come over to mine for dinner and you can tell me all about what you plan to put in this dump.”

She didn’t wait for his answer.

Campbell dragged him across the street into a little bookstore. Books were jammed into every shelf, nook, and cranny where they would fit, and even piled on the floor. A brilliant purple suede sofa sagged against the far wall. There was single table where Campbell must sell books to customers. A signed poster of David Bowie, along with a few of his records, gazed benevolently over the shop.

She didn’t give him a tour, instead opting to push him upstairs to her flat.

“Knock, knock!” She said, not knocking. She had a firm grip on Draco’s elbow.

“Heya!” A woman’s voice called. “Dragging home strays again?”

Campbell laughed. “Just one today. Moved into old Arnie’s store yesterday,”

“Ah, the elusive Mr. M. I’ll be out in a sec,”

Draco stood just in front of the door, unsure what to do with his hands or how to make his presence known.

At last, the woman made her appearance. She was average height, average build, average face. She was remarkably average if you ignored the paint-stained overalls, bright yellow belt, and bright white flyaway hair. Draco’s overall impression was that of a dandelion puff.

“I’m Elise. Nice to meet you,” She stuck out a hand, then retracted it when she realized it was covered in paint.

“Draco,” He said, continuing to stand in the entryway. Campbell pushed him further into the flat. It seemed to have a similar layout to his. The furniture was all blandly mid-century, but prints of various sizes hung about the walls. He assumed Elise had painted them.

“Draco’s an interesting name,” Elise remarked, washing her hands in the kitchen sink. “You’ll have to excuse me. I didn’t realize we were having company tonight,” See said with a pointed look at Campbell.

Campbell ignored it, equally pointy.

“I don’t have to stay,” Draco said.

“No, no–” Elise sputtered.

“–That’s certainly not necessary–”

“–I didna mean that–”

The women apologized profusely to each other and to him, interrupting each other and making a general kindhearted cacophony.

Turning to him, they said, “You’re staying,”

Draco gave them a halfhearted smile. “I don’t want to be any trouble, really,”

Campbell’s gaze turned firm. “You’re staying.”

And that was that.

Elise led him to one of the short sofas.

“Did you paint these?” Draco asked, gesturing to the prints.

“Fortunately, yes. I think it would be rather rude to have stolen someone else’s artwork and then hung it up in my home,” She had an urban Irish accent. “What are you planning on doing with the shop?”

“Coffee,” He said simply.

She waited for more. Draco simply looked at her.

“Draco’s an interesting name,” She tried again.

“My mother is an astronomy enthusiast,”

“Funny things, telescopes,”

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “Funny things,” His wand was pressing into his backside. If the muggles asked what it was, he would have to pass it off as fancy pen or something. He looked over to the kitchen. Campbell was busying herself making some sort of sauce.

“Funny thing, you’re building a coffee shop in old Arnie’s place,”

Draco remained silent.

“He would be rolling in his grave or whatever they put him in. Don’t know if he ever had a funeral, poor bugger,”

Draco’s pulse jumped. Hundreds of muggles had been killed during the War. Hell, Draco had murdered one or two at the Dark Lo- at Voldemort’s command. “Did he disappear?”

“Nah, just died in his sleep. You’ve gone all funny looking. Did you know him?”

“No,” Draco willed his face to stay neutral. Old Arnie had probably died of old age. It was a thing that happened. His place had only been for sale for about a year. Arnie had just croaked and the funeral people had put the house on the market. It happened. People died. The War was over. The muggles hadn’t even known it was going on.

“Good, then I can tell you how much of a stick he had up his arse. He absolutely loathed Aina and I, but I could never figure out why!”

“Bet you a pretty penny I could tell you, love!” Campbell called. So they were married, or as good as.

“Oh, piss off,” Elise retorted lovingly. “Anyway, whenever I sent him Easter flowers he shredded them,”

“Rude,”

“Oh, yes, and his store was atrocious. I went in there once, about five years ago, and it smelled like a whole coven of raccoons had died of eating poisoned garbage,”

“Afraid it still smells like that,”

“Really? That’s even more atrocious. Have you tried vinegar? Dilute it a bit, make sure you don't leave it on too long or the wood will rot,”

“No. I’ve only started cleaning it out today,” Draco answered honestly.

“Ah, yes. I’ll stop by tomorrow while Aina’s minding the shop. Busy moving into the flat yesterday?”

“Something like that.” Draco smiled weakly, then was struck with the sudden urge to open up to these women. “There’s a problem with my furniture. They said it should arrive within the week, but I'm rather doubtful that will occur. Yesterday I mostly spent calling whoever I could think in order to get it shipped,”

“That’s triply atrocious. Do you even have a bed?”

“No. I slept on the sofa last night,” For only a few hours. Draco had been having trouble sleeping since, well, since he was about sixteen. He was twenty-one now.

“You must stay here, then. Aina, lock the door so he can’t escape,”

“Elise, that’s inhumane,” Campbell said, not looking up from her dish. It smelled like pasta. “You should simply wait outside his flat until he feels terrible about leaving you out in the cold and comes over to sate you,”

Elise developed a mischievous glint in her eye. “You hear that, Draco? You’re staying until they get you your bed,”

“No, no. I don’t want to trouble you. I have a feeling it will take a very long time for them to ship anything,” Draco wasn’t accustomed to being aggressively cared for. He didn’t like it.

Campbell brought out three plates of pasta with red sauce and set them on the table. “Draco, I’m going to be very frank with you,”

“Yes?”

“Shut up and eat some noodles,”

Draco shut up, sat down, and picked up a fork. The noodles tasted nothing like the house elves’ at the Manor, and not at all like the ones at Hgwarts. Not over or undercooked, but the red sauce was excessively cheesy. Draco found it endearing, somehow. He could hear Campbell and Elise prattling on on the other side of the table.

“You really need to stop adopting random people off the street, dear,”

“He wasn’t off the street! I came into his store. And goodness knows he needed it. Poor kid probably hasn’t eaten in two days. He’s skinny as a rail!”

“I bet you’re scaring him. He’s made of the same stuff as the other one you brought in a couple years back,”

“Yes, and now you love him. We have a Wednesday lunch, for Chrissakes,”

“I cede, I cede. Draco,”

Draco looked up.

“Opinions on David Bowie?”

He blinked, swallowed his mouthful of pasta. This seemed like a test. “I don’t quite share his penchant for tight pants, but I believe if I had been alive when he was popular I would have had his poster,”

Elise nodded. “I thought so,”

“Great,” Draco said, attempting to stab another noodle but finding there were none left. “Thank you for the dinner, it was delicious,”

“Are you leaving?”

“I’ll have to collect my things in order to spend the night,”

Elise nearly fainted out of relief. “Aina can come with, to make sure you come back,”

“That sounds lovely, thank you,” Draco said, standing up from the table. “Where should I set my dishes?”

Elise grabbed it out of his hand. “Guests don’t have to do the washing up,” She waited while he remained standing for several seconds. “What are you waiting for? Go grab your things!”

 

xXx

 

Draco woke with a start, unsure of where he was. A woman, nude from the waist up, stared aloofly from the print on the wall. Music blared from somewhere in the flat. The song was familiar, but he couldn’t place it yet. The clock declared it was 7:30 am. If that was true, then he had slept more in one night than he had the several days.

Nonetheless, he packed the clothes from the night before back into their small duffel.

He opened the door of Campbell and Elise’s spare bedroom. He had not been surprised when they had retired into the same room at around 9:30 pm.

By 2:00 today, Lucius Malfoy would realize Draco was not going to be attending the traditional Malfoy Saturday lunch.

By 3:00 today, Narcissa Malfoy would send him an owl.

By 4:00 today, Blaise Zabini would be laughing himself silly over the whole affair.

By 4:05 today, Pansy Parkinson would be treating herself to Blaise’s house elf’s finest cuisine.

By 5:00 today–

“Put on your red shoees and daance the bluueeees!” Elise sang from the side room. She was painting and had a record player set at maximum volume. For a woman of at least sixty she had remarkably supple lungs.

Draco wandered into the main room and sat at the squat sofa. He had concealed his wand in a sort of disillusioned wrist holster. He would have to think of a new solution for the summer months, but for April it was easy to slip the holster up his sleeve. Maybe if he could find any wizards or witches in this town, they could share their wand-hiding strategies.

Unfortunately, Draco’s new self-declared Lesbian mothers were clearly not witches.

He had four and a half hours before he had to avoid Lucius.

“Thank you all for your hospitality,” He began. “But I’ll be heading over to mine now,”

Elise yelled a gracious ‘you’re welcome’ from her studio. Campbell gave him a salute over her cup –Draco was pleased to see– of coffee.

“Remember the vinegar!”

Draco nodded as he walked out the door. He made his way through the bookstore. As he was leaving, a tall dark-skinned man with wire-framed glasses and an utter mop of black hair approached the door. He set down an oddly-shaped brown paper package at the door before giving it a resounding couple of knocks. Draco didn’t get a good look at him, but he seemed exceedingly fit under the green jumper.

Maybe Campbell would introduce them sometime.

A pile of letters greeted him on the floor of the shop. Draco banished them upstairs. He sighed, then conjured a gallon of vinegar and a dust mask.

Right under the door seemed to bet he best place to start. He began rubbing the vinegar on the floorboards. It should be okay, he convinced himself. These were bare, unwaxed floorboards. Mother wasn’t about to burst in and demand to know what in Merlin’s name was going on. The Lesbian couple who lived across the way had told him to do this. They knew what they were doing.

It was half past eleven when Draco realized he was growing uncomfortably hungry. So he took a break. There was nothing much in his flat, but toast would have to do today. Maybe he would get groceries tomorrow. That’s what he said yesterday, but here’s to hoping.

He picked up one of his letters. It was an apology from the aurors about his furniture. Draco _incendio_ ed it. The next was a complaint from Mr. Orion N Ager. He opened it.

 

“ _Dear sir,_

_I am very sorry you did not enjoy my portrait of you, or the article in which you were included. Since you did not include your name, I do not know exactly what it is that prompted your displeasure. If you would like to provide constructive critisicm, please do so. I am willing to accomodate any suggestions provided in a professional manner._

_Mr. Orion N Ager_

_Photographer and Columnist_ ”

 

Draco smirked. Mr Ager clearly teetered on the edge of snapping. With a few more creative letters, Draco would get him to send a vaguely threatening letter. Then, he could simply tip off a rival journalist on Mr Ager’s violent tendencies. The resulting article would potentially end Mr Ager’s career, or at least condemn it to _Witch Weekly_ grade.

For the next couple hours Draco amused himself with drafting the perfect response. Mr Ager had simply used a return owl, so there was no worry about being recognized via post. Merlin knows Draco’s had enough trouble for a lifetime.

At precisely 2:00 pm, the floo rang.

It was time. Lucius was calling.


	2. Arabica

The call with his father had gone about as well as expected. In summary, Lucius had demanded he come back to the Manor at once, to which Draco had closed the floo to him.

It was probably the most Gryffindor thing he had done since moving out to Scotland in the first place.

Draco sat, breathing heavily in front of the fireplace, wand clutched in one hand. It was shaking slightly. He needed a coffee.

Simple and sweet arabica, but with honey. Most people preferred sugar, but Draco liked the dissonance. It gave him a focus in tasting.

The floo rang again. Draco’s head snapped up, eyes wide. Lucius would eat him alive in this state.

“Damn, mate. You look you got dry-humped by a ghost!”

Draco smiled weakly. “Something like that, Blaise, something like that,”

Blaise’s dark eyes grew mockingly wide. “You mean you’ve had action in the past year? Someone call _Witch Weekly_ ,”

“Oh, shut it, you wanker,”

“Can you be called a wanker if you have someone else wank you?” He mused.

Draco shook his head. Blaise hadn’t changed since he was a fifth year. It was endearing, in a way, to have someone so consistent. “Why’d you call, then?”

“Pansy was asking for you. Wanted a cuppa,”

Despite Blaise’s casual tone, Pansy would not have asked for him simply to catch up with tea. It was best, Draco decided, to give her what she asked for. “Where are you? I’ll step through,”

“No, no. We’ll just come to you,” he said.

Draco shrugged and stepped back, inviting him in.

Blaise’s green-cast face disappeared for a minute. Soon, it reappeared, but attached to a body standing in Draco’s poor excuse for a living room. Luckily, short hair was currently _en vogue_ , so Blaise had no trouble maneuvering himself to the single chair. Blaise moved with a sort of elegance one wouldn't expect from someone so lanky, but the sort of elegance you would expect from someone with Blaise's haughty eyes.

“Is Pansy coming?” Draco asked.

“Yes,” a gravelly feminine voice said from behind him. “Your flat is lovely,” she said.

“If mildew is your comfort scent,” Blaise added.

“Hush, I was trying to be polite!” Pansy mock-whispered.

Draco spun to face her. She was always just a bit shorter than he remembered, but the sharp eyes, the angles of her sleek black bob, her high cheekbones were all the same. “Aurors said furniture is coming in a week,” Draco said. “But knowing them…”

“It’ll take ten times that long,” Blaise finished.

“Even that would be generous,” Pansy remarked. “Firewhiskey?” She asked, gliding toward the sparse kitchen area.

“This is my house, Pans,”

“This is my party, _Darling_.”

Pansy was experimenting with calling everybody ‘darling.’ She felt it gave her that certain air of unattainability she liked so well. Draco felt it gave her that certain air of a matronly Victorian aristocrat. He told her as much, she stuck her tongue out at him.

“I’m worried, Draco,” she said, sitting on the floor.

He quirked an eyebrow and sat on the TV stand.

“This whole flat simply reeks of Boxwood. If you are growing one, don’t,”

Draco gave her a sardonic smile. “Noted. If my flat smells so much like a boxwood bush,”

Blaise exchanged a look with Pansy.

“Then stop beating around it and tell me why you’re here.”

Pansy sighed, took a drink of the firewhiskey. She offered the bottle to Blaise, who declined.

“Last night I received an owl–“

Blaise interrupted her. “On second thought, I’ll take some,”

Pansy passed him the bottle with a roll of her eyes and a huff. He took a rather large swig. Draco was beginning to get worried.

“Last night,” Pansy began again, “I received an owl. Or rather, your mother did. Lucius, as you know…” she trailed off.

“The aurors read everything, I know,” Draco said. “I was there at the trial. It was nearly three years ago. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me.” He tried for a reassuring smile.

Pansy grimaced. “Your mother received an owl from Gringotts. They want to inspect the manor for repossession,”

The TV stand creaked as Draco pulled his legs up onto it to sit cross-legged. “Why the hell would they do that?”

Pansy made eye contact with Blaise. He shrugged. Her dark eyes pierced Draco’s. “So you really haven’t been reading the news?”

Draco shook his head slightly.

“Wizengamot ruled about a month ago that all past Death Eater places of residence need to be re-inspected for lingering Dark influence, whatever that means,”

“What it means,” Draco spat, “Is they want to sell the Manor to cover their own bankrupt arses,”

Pansy nodded grimly.

“I thought all the Death Eater shit was over,” Blaise remarked. “The Ministry can’t blame you any more than they can blame themselves,”

Draco muttered,”The Death Eater shit will never be over,”

At the same time Pansy let out a forced laugh. “The problem is they can blame us. Ugly, inbred purebloods who’ve been shitting on everybody else for centuries,”

“And that’s not the Ministry?” Blaise said.

“Oh, no, it is,” Pansy grabbed the bottle and took another swig. “Problem is, they can pretend it’s by _accident_.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Malfoy said, for lack of something better to say.

Blaise snatched the bottle out of Pansy’s hand. “A toast to Draco and his eloquence!”

Pansy ignored him. “What are you going to do, then?”

Draco stared back at her. He fiddled with a piece from the muggle radio. “I don’t know, Pansy. I don’t know,”

xXx

“Did ya get this from the trash? It looks like it was thrown outta a back window somewhere,” The man at the radio store said.

Draco forced a laugh. “No, it was my aunt’s. She sent it through the post and it seems to have gotten a little shaken,”

The man snorted and turned it over in his hands. He was the sole proprietor and employee of George’s Electronic Reparations, a decidedly smart-looking front room of a home near the end of the row.

“Lucky enough, you have all the pieces right here. It’s just they’re all broken or in the wrong place. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour or two to fix, if you have an hour or two to spare. Lydia!”

A young woman in her late twenties or early thirties stepped into the room. She stopped and stared at Draco for about thirty seconds. “Yes, grandfather?” She said, still staring at Draco.

“Would you mind brewing this young man some tea? I have a radio to fix.”

“Of-of course not. What did you say your name was?”

“Draco,” he said.

Her freckled face grew pale. “Well, Draco, why don’t you follow me into the kitchen?”

He nodded.

The kitchen was as decidedly smart as the front room, painted a cheery yellow. Lydia closed the door and set a teapot on the stove.

“Never imagined I’d have Draco Malfoy in my kitchen with my grandfather fixing him a radio he found off the street,”

“Excuse me, I didn’t say–“

“You really think you’re the only wizard in Abford? Please. I was a fourth year when you were sorted. I’m a Hufflepuff, in case you were wondering,”

“I figured,”

“Kitchen walls too obvious?” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes.

The teapot whistled. “Earl grey or herbal?”

“Whichever you have most of,” Draco didn’t care much for tea, a fact he rarely disclosed to any self-respecting Englishperson. Too many cups shoved into him as a child, he supposed.

“Herbal it is,” she said, handing him a mug. It bore a watercolor Golden Gate Bridge.

“I travel a lot, for my job. I do healing potions,” she explained.

They say in silence for so long, Draco started counting the seconds. He had just made it to four hundred ninety two when Lydia finally boiled over.

“Just so you know, I don’t blame you for what you did. During the war, I mean. Well, during the war I did, but then I realized I would have done the same thing when I was seventeen and in your position, all my family threatened and supporting _him_. Is that rude to the muggleborns who died?”

Draco was tempted to say yes, but instead remained silent.

“I guess I’d be the best one out of us to answer that, but I was traveling in America and when the wizarding travel warnings went up I figured I should stay for a while longer. It’s when I got the mug,” she said, nodding to Draco’s.

He took a sip from it.

“I was in the midwest originally. Are you familiar with the midwestern United States?”

“I’ve never been,”

“You should!” She said. “Actually, you shouldn’t. It’s not beautiful, but the people are very kind. I have to say, the Great Plains selection of wild coneflowers was one of the best I’ve ever seen. But I don’t want to bore you with flower talk,”

“Actually, please do. I’m somewhat of an amateur potioneer myself,”

“Of course you are! Professor Snape often spoke about your talent,”

Draco listened to her prattle on about North American Prairie flowers for the next half hour. It certainly wasn’t the conversation he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t unwelcome either. Draco would much rather head about the healing properties of sunflowers than have to move again after a well-meaning witch hexes his bollocks off for flouncing his death eater face about.

He actually had a nice face, he thought. Draco rather liked it. He liked it best when his hair fell about his face in a state of disorder. He liked it when he looked a little bit shabbier than was strictly necessary for a nice pureblood such as himself.

He left George’s Electronic Reparations with a fixed radio, a list with the tuning specifications for George’s favorite stations, and a potential friend.

The coffee shop, on the other hand, left something to be desired. Although the putrid scent was evaporating, the floorboards needed refinishing and the walls were indistinguishable from vertical floorboards. They would have to go. Wood paneling is, has been, and always will be tacky

Draco set his radio upstairs and grabbed one of the notebooks he’d brought with him. He transfigured a splinter from the floor into a notebook and began to write. In order to change the appearance of the walls without changing the constitution of the walls themselves, he needed some arithmancy.

Not only did he need the walls to change, he also needed them to behave as normal walls would. If there was water damage, the walls needed to reflect that. Otherwise, if, for instance, termites decided to make a home in the walls, Draco would not see the signs and go on living obliviously until the house crumbled around him. That would not be ideal.

Draco made a mental note to research anti-pest charms as well.

He looked down at his writing. There were two possible wand movements that could match the spell he wanted, but he couldn’t try them both.

Swish, slash, flick, or swipe, flick, swipe?

He couldn’t start with a swish, he realized. That constitutes impermanence. Draco wanted this spell to be as permanent as possible. He took a breath, then cast.

A day’s work done and tacky paneling no more, Draco retired to his upstairs flat. He had left the radio sitting on the card table. What better day was there to test out the true muggle technological prowess?

Draco picked up George’s list of stations.

81.9 (FM)

That’s the channel George had written for ‘local culture.’ Draco hadn’t known muggles broadcasted radio shows for that, or even that such a show would be broadcasting from Abford, of all places. George had also written on the _sticky note_ that the show started at 10:30 and ended most commonly at 11, but it depends.

_Depends._

Depends on what? Aren’t radio shows supposed to be more or less _definite?_

It was getting close to 10:30. Draco fiddled with the dial.

_Hello, er-_

The voice from the box said. It was a warm, solid voice, reminding Draco of the pleasant parts of his childhood. It reminded him of his four-poster Hogwarts bed, of getting sorted, of wonder and joy. Hogwarts before, well, before. But Draco _could not remember who the voice belonged to._

_So as any of you know my therapist wanted me to do this. Hi, Angie. Er, she wanted me to write a diary, actually, but I tried that and kept failing so I’m doing a radio show now. And I’m supposed to be looking at everything objectively. Like without feelings and stuff._

Draco rolled his eyes. Everyone knows what “objectively” means.

_And I’m also not using any names. I’m just going to be talking about stuff the way I saw it directly. I’m not going to be wondering what other people think. I won’t. I promise, Angie._

He laughed. Draco let a small smile creep across his own face. It wasn’t his fault. The host just had an infectious sort of laugh, that’s all.

 _Today I woke up later than I should have. Well, a whole ten minutes late. To my dog. She’s this great big black thing. I found her on the streets a few years ago, just before I moved. I used her as an excuse, I think. But a good one. I just couldn’t stand everyone, anymore. With all their_ expectations.

Draco knew a thing or two about those.

_Anyways, I’m not supposed to dwell. I did what I needed to do. So I let Stella out. That’s my dog. Short for constellation._

Draco also know a thing or two about Latin, and that’s not really how root words work. But, considering the radio host did not have a tellyphone line to call him up on and complain, Draco’s knowledge would have to go unshared.

_I had to call up a friend today, see. I can’t say friend all the time because that’ll confuse you all, so he’s our friend Carrot if you’ve listened before. If you haven’t, yes, I have a friend whose Christian name is Carrot. It’s because he’s blonde, you see._

_I didn’t really want to call him up, though. I haven’t talked to him in about a year and it was on purpose. As you know, he wanted me to marry his sister (which is kind of gross when you think of it). Imagine telling your best friend to marry the female version of you. Disgusting._

He laughed again, but it was tuneless this time. The radio host was making jokes out of habit.

_I wanted to apologize to him, but he didn’t answer. Probably working. Seems as if I’m the only busybody around here without a job. This doesn’t count._

Despite his self-deprecating jokes, the radio host had a soothing voice. Even through the radio, the timbres rang rich. Draco felt his eyelids getting heavy.

_So I rang him up, he didn’t answer, and I went out to my garden. It’s small right now, but I promise you it’s going to be a lot bigger. There’s going to be vegetables and flowers and everything. Everything you could ever want in a garden is going to be in mine. A regular paradise. That is, if Stella doesn’t eat it all first. She takes after her namesake._

_Her namesake isn’t the stars. It’s after my parent’s two best friends. They’re both dead now. I figured they’d like to have a big dog named after them. They’d think it funny._

_There were these caterpillars all over and I don’t know how to get rid of them, or even if I want to get rid of them. What if they’re nice caterpillars? So I go over to the house of this woman who’s basically my third or fourth mum (I forget how many mums I have, so many people have decided I’m their son). I grab the parcel that came in the mail yesterday to show her, too. Haven’t opened it yet. I bet she’d want to see it. I walk over to her house and I nearly bump into this guy…_

Draco barely registered his head falling onto his card table. In seconds, he was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a minute. I would have had it updated wayyyyy sooner, but I had finals a few weeks ago and then I had to turn my school laptop in. Now I've got my grandpa's dinosaur laptop up and running, but no promises on how soon I'll have the next one up.... hopefully before summer's over.
> 
> Anywho, Abford isn't a real place in Scotland. If I chose a real place, I'd get too caught up in what exactly the setup of the street is an whatnot. So don't go google mapping anything. I've never been there.


	3. Kona

“No, no, you don’t have to, I assure you,” Draco protested, weakly.

“Draco, dear-” Elise said.

“You simply must get food for yourself sometime or another.” Campbell finished for her.

The pair had infiltrated his flat approximately half an hour ago, and had been so thoroughly put out by Draco sleeping on a card table they wanted to take him on errands with them. He had no idea how they’d managed to unlock not only the front door, but also the door to his flat. The ladies, it seemed, had no sense of wrongdoing when it came to one of their ‘charges.’

Draco made the mistake of wandering somewhere near the exit.

“Wonderful!” Campbell said, grabbing him by the shoulder and maneuvering him downstairs. He had no idea how a woman whose head barely reached his shoulder could pull him around so easily, but here he was, standing outside his shop and on his way to the baker’s. He supposed it was payback for falling asleep at his flat instead of theirs.

“Wonderful progress, dear,” Elise said, joining them. “It took the other one nearly a week to even eat at ours,”

“Well, I’ve learned a lot about picking up strays since then,” she said.

He could smell the bakery from across the street, and as he walked in, his mouth watered at the overwhelming scent of bread, in solid, liquid, and gaseous forms.

The baker was an older gentleman by the name of Victor. His mouth twitched as the couple approached until finally it broke into a blatant smile, white teeth shining against dark skin.

“And what would you two wizened old layabouts want?” he asked.

“A loaf of the usual for us and one for the lad,” Campbell answered. “If your old, arthritic hands can manage it,”

Draco didn’t quite know what to make of the exchange. From their tones, he wasn’t sure if the insults were backed by amity or enmity.

“I see you’re adopting strays again,” He said, handing Campbell two mouthwatering loaves, each wrapped in a paper bag.

“Stray. Not plural. I’m pretty sure there’s only one of him,” she answered, glancing questioningly back at Draco.

He nodded. “Just me,”

“Nosy busybody!” he called as they left the shop.

“Gossip!” Campbell called back.

As soon as they were out the door, Campbell and Elise began cackling like mad geese.

“Don’t worry about him, love,” Elise assured him. “The minute he begins insulting you, the minute he’s accepted you,”

“And once you win him over, you win the rest of the town over, too,” Campbell added.

They moved on to the next shop for dairy and vegetables.

“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s not a supermarket around here. Luckily, most of us shopkeepers have discounts for the regulars who just want to eat instead of buy novelty goods,” Elise said.

“Thank you,” Draco said. “And seriously, I don’t need you to do this for me. I could manage well enough on my own,”

Campbell laughed. “You call living in a latrine-scented flat, alone, with no food or furniture managing well? What do you call barely managing? Living in a warzone or something?”

Draco forced the corners of his mouth into a smile. “Or something,”

“Come to think of it,” Elise said, handing him a bag of mixed vegetables she had bought for him. “You remind me more and more of the other boy we fixed up,”

Campbell looked him up and down. “Same side of different coins, I’d reckon,”

Draco looked at them quizzically. “And just who is this other boy? You’ve mentioned him several times now,”

“I doubt you’d know him,” Campbell said. “He has one of those names,”

Elise nodded. “You must know a dozen other people with it,”

“So it can’t harm me much to know?” Draco prodded.  
“Of course not, love,” Elise said. “His name is Harry. Harry Potter,”

Draco froze.

Elise’s tone turned tender. “You alright, a leanbh?” She asked, gently grabbing his shoulder.

Draco nodded. “Fine, fine!” His voice sounded too high. “I just used to know someone by that name. Probably not the same person, though,” He laughed forcefully.

“Should I ask him you were calling?”

“No! No, no. Please don’t. It’s probably best if… if it is who I’m thinking of, he doesn’t know I’m here. We aren’t…” He flashed a weak smile. “On the best of terms. Oh, look at that!” He ran several metres to his storefront. “I’m here. Er, goodbye. Thank you,”

Draco brought his groceries upstairs, nearly falling several times. He’d been forced to let his new mothers pay for them, since he hadn’t quite gotten around to exchanging galleons for pounds or whatever it is they use these days.

He looked at his hands. They were shaking. He lowered them onto the cool kitchen counter Merlin, Harry Potter. Of all the wizards he could accidentally meet, it had to be the one who owed him the least.

Draco scrambled for the floo powder.

“Weasley. Ronald,” he greeted the narrow, unamused face in the fire. “I can’t live here any longer,”

“It’s only been a few days, Malfoy. I’m sure you can handle whatever muggle abomination it is,”

“No, no. It’s not that. There’s another thing,”

Weasley lifted a ginger eyebrow. Or at least, it was assumed it was ginger. The green of the floo made it hard to tell.

“Potter’s here. You know him. He’ll hex first, ask questions later. I can’t-” Draco swallowed. He could hear his heartbeat pumping through the blood vessels in his ears. “You have to move me,”

Weasley seemed to consider this for a second. “Malfoy, last I heard, Harry was completely out of the country. He had a place in some Caribbean island. That was a year ago. I think whatever you heard, it isn’t true. I know Harry. He wouldn’t lie to me,”

Draco nodded. He wasn’t convinced, but it was clear Weasley was not going to be any help.

“I can send a team, though-”

“No! Thank you. No, I’ll survive. You’re probably right,” He said, ending the call. Even if Harry Potter was really living out in Abford, which he strongly suspected was the case, it would be disrespectful to out his location to the rest of the wizarding world. Draco already owed him enough, honestly. As for the supposed Caribbean island, Draco had a gut feeling that was a ruse. Potter, despite his many, many, many flaws, had a particular dislike for paparazzi of any sort and would no doubt send them on a wild goose chase as far away as possible. Intentionally misleading his supposed best friend, however, would be a new sort of sin for Potter.

The floo roared to life, and out stepped Pansy Parkinson, looking rather more mussed than per usual.

“What’s your problem?” she demanded.

He pulled a face.

“Darling,” she added, running a hand through her normally stick-straight and glossy bob.

Twenty minutes later, Draco was still fervently explaining the extent of his problems. Pansy, as always, gave him absolutely no sympathy.

“I’m quite certain he’s going to ruin my life.” Draco concluded.

“Have you ever considered you could beat him to it? Ruin his life instead?”

Draco scowled, counting out the muggle bills the goblin handed him. “You’re supposed to be sorry for me,”

“Whoops,” she said, voice devoid of any emotion. “Must have missed that day in friendship-school,”

“What school was that?” A room-filling voice from behind them asked.

Draco whirled around. “Blaise? Did you get a job at last?”

“Occupations, Draco, darling, are wonderful ways for us members of the proletariat to waste our time,”

Draco raised an eyebrow, turning to complete the transaction and thank to goblin for his time.

“You can’t say ‘darling,’” Pansy insisted behind him. “It’s my thing,”  
“Oh, no, darling, has someone managed to ruffle your feathers?”

Draco turned back to catch Pansy adjusting her collar.

“Lunch, then?” He interrupted. “I’m sure we all have lots to talk about,”

At lunch it became quite clear that Draco had reached his limit on sympathy for the month, and had left feeling altogether better about the whole Potter situation. Surely, he could stay out of his way, if it even was the same Potter from school. Potter, who had saved the wizarding world and all that. With any luck, it would be a Potter whose parents were very much alive and had just celebrated their anniversary.

He decided to air his last remaining grievances by drafting another letter to Mr. Orion N Ager. This one insinuated that Draco had a qualified lawyer on hand at all times. After the letter was on its way, he began packing a change of clothes and the like in a backpack. Even though Campbell and Elise had royally put a damper on Abford, he couldn’t disappoint them by sleeping in his own flat.

On a whim, he shoved the muggle radio into his backpack as well.

That night, at precisely 10:32 pm, it crackled to life.

“Hello, er- again. It’s me. My therapist is making me do this and all that. I just got off the phone with one of my mates from school. It’s Carrot’s girlfriend, Perdita. No, that’s not her real name. Yes, I’ve read Shakespeare. There’s not a lot to do in an empty house, you know?”

Draco was well aware. Rattling around in the manor was bad enough- he could hardly imagine what it was like in one of the cramped local houses.

“She didn’t want much to do with me. Well, she did, it’s just she didn’t know how to say anything to me. I mean, how do you open a conversation with the man who just completely cut you out of his life a couple years ago?” The radio host took a deep, shaky breath.

Draco set the volume lower and sat on the edge of the bed in Campbell and Elise’s spare bedroom.

“You see, I had thought everyone would be better off without me. I was so caught up in what I could’ve done to make everything better now. Survivor’s guilt, my therapist said. I couldn’t face anyone. So I left. But now, I’m trying to come back. And not everyone’s letting me, but I’m going to keep trying,”

A rise of emotion grew in Draco. He wanted the man from the radio to seek reparations with his friends, to get back to the life he should be living.

“Anyway, Stella starting eating my green beans again. No matter how many times I spray pepper around it, she always gets in them again! I said no, Stella, that’s what bad dogs do, and she doesn’t care. One day, I’m going to put her inside forever, I told her, just like a bad dog jail. Then she wagged her tail and looked at me and I just didn’t have the heart to do anything. I swear, she could cock her head just so and I would let her eat all my green beans. I don’t care,”

Draco felt his eyes growing heavy, and he switched off the radio. Tomorrow, he decided, he would have a talk with his mother about the manor.

xXx

The manor was just as he remembered it: the east wing in disrepair and the west wing in perfect condition. The long drive was lined with dark pink carnations and the small flock of peacocks roamed the front lawn.

The iron-wrought gate closed behind Draco, and he started up the drive.

“Gelby will take sir to Mistress Narcissa,”  
The ancient house-elf greeted him.

“Yes, thank you, Gelby,” Draco said, ignoring the rapid beat of his heart.

His mother received him in the parlor, he noticed, rather than the drawing room.

“Draco,” she began. She sat across from him in a green upholstered Victorian-era chair and was sipping a cup of tea.

Draco was studying the embroidery on the sofa he was sitting on. It had rather lovely dragons.

“I will not pretend you are here to apologize or to explain yourself,”

A dragon near his knee was flitting around rather energetically, much to the dismay of the dragon on the edge of the cushion.

“Nor shall I attempt to persuade you back to the Manor. If you are here, Draco,”

Draco looked up.

“It must be for a reason outside of your control. What is it?”

“Where is Lucius?”

If Narcissa was surprised that Draco used his father’s given name, she hid it exceedingly well.

She curled her lip. “Sleeping, I presume,”

“Good.” Draco poured himself a cup of tea. “I have reason to believe the ministry is trying to take the Manor,”

Her eyebrows knit together.

“They’re re-inspecting former Death Ester residences. If there’s any hint of Dark magic, they’ll condemn us.” He set his cup down. “And we all know what they want to find, they’ll find,”

Narcissa nodded grimly. “The only reason they didn’t take the Manor before was because of the trial,”

“And because of Harry Potter,” Draco muttered. “That great prat,” he added silently, inspecting the embroidered dragons again. They were listening intently.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Potter has–what is that phrase?–pulled a Gone Girl, so the Ministry can do whatever they want,”

Draco raised an eyebrow and the hint of a smile graced his face. “I didn’t know you watched muggle movies,”

Narcissa sniffed. “Literature, actually. The muggle television has been broken since you left,”

Draco didn’t miss the implication that if he had been around, his mother would be watching daytime dramas and the movie channel.

“I think if we want to keep the Manor,” Narcissa fixed Draco with her cool stare. “You’re going to have to find Mr. Potter and do a bit of old-fashioned groveling,”

“I thought Malfoys didn’t grovel?”

“No, they pay people off. But Blacks know how to read a situation, and this situation calls for groveling.” Narcissa motioned for him to rise. “Good day, Draco. Come back soon,”

Draco nodded and saw himself out. Luckily, it seems, he’s already found Potter.

On his walk to the apparition point, he thought it over. His mother’s theory proved plausible: that Harry Potter’s favor was the only thing standing in between the Ministry and the Manor. However, other factors should come into consideration, such as Harry Potter was a prat and a hermit and Draco would rather clean his flat the muggle way than talk to him.

But it wasn’t just up to Draco. He had to do this for his mother, if for no one else.

He apparated straight into the kitchen of his flat. A pair of large blue eyes greeted him barely centimeters from his own.

“Luna.” He said, taking a step back and brushing himself off. “Surprised to see you here.”

He and Luna had been friendly for nearly two years now. Just before his trial, they had thrown him in Azkaban for a couple weeks. Luna had visited him every other day, smuggling in good food and her favorite novels. She said she was only repaying him for what she owed to him. That much was true. Draco had given her an Ollivander bread and fruit when they were imprisoned in his basement. But Luna had continued visiting him periodically even outside Azkaban and they had struck up a friendship.

“Nice flat,” she said, musical voice bouncing off the near-empty cabinetry of the kitchen. “Shame about the Squoggles, though,”

“Squoggles?”

“Oh, yes. The whole place reeks of them.”

Draco nodded. “Coffee?”

“Of course. Do you have any of that Kona type?” She adjusted her kneazle earrings. They smelled like they were made of real kneazle fur.

He rustled through the cabinets to find the proper coffee strain and began preparing it. “Just dropping in?”

“Yes, going to round up the Squoggles then buzz away. Don’t think you’re in a position to take guests.” She gave him a wry smile.

Draco handed her a mug. They sat on the counter together.

“My friend Rolf is studying them. I’m just rounding them up for him, you know. He’s a Scamander. Very odd man,”

Draco raised an eyebrow. If Luna thought someone was odd, they must be very odd indeed.

“Have you got any friends, yet?” She asked innocently, taking a sip of her coffee.

He made an effort to smile. It didn’t work. “There’s these older women who’ve adopted me, sort of. And the granddaughter of the electronic repairman,”

“And who else?”

“No one. No friends, anyway,”

Luna made a small skeptical, yet encouraging sound.

Draco set his coffee down. “Did you know Harry Potter lives here?”

“Yes,” she said simply, meeting his eyes. “He’s quite lonely. Could do with a friend,”

He laughed. “He’s lonely? Him?! He’s got loads of friends, everybody loves the great Harry Potter. He’s always loved fame, hasn’t he?” He gesticulated wildly with every exclamation. “The prat, bloody Potter. Too good for us all,”

Luna laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m the only non-muggle he’s seen in the last year. Since he’s disappeared. Draco-”

He didn’t look at her.

“-I know you need to talk to him. Trust me, all he needs is a friend. I believe in you.”

Draco nodded.

“So about these Squoggles, I’m going to have to use a couple of charms and then flush them out with a potion…”

Draco let her explanations fade into the background. Some hours later, he said goodbye. Then he packed up his belongings for the night and walked over to Campbell and Elise’s. He listened to the radio man, then fell asleep. The day had been long and he didn’t plan on having another one like it for quite some time.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this was a little later than i would've liked... i've been OBSESSED with good omens for the past several weeks and have been devoting all of my time to it. anyways, y'all will meet harry sometime i promise


	4. Santo Domingo

“Haven’t heard from the poor dear nigh on two days now!” Elise said.

“It’s your fault, innit? You’re the one who mentioned Harry,” Campbell responded. 

“How was I supposed to know?”

Campbell made a shrugging noise. “Just hope we haven’t scared off the boy. I was starting to like him.”

 “Who?” Harry asked, walking into their small kitchen. It was Wednesday lunch, and he was right on time. The Mums (he called them privately) were usually discussing someone or other they had run into or gotten a call from or offended recently. 

They exchanged a look. Then another one. Elise opened her mouth, then Campbell rose an eyebrow, winning the argument. “Never you mind,” Campbell said.

 “How is your little tree doing?” Elise asked.

 “Oh, yes! The pear. I’ve put her in and she’s doing very well,” Harry said, feeling slightly guilty. He had, in fact, relied mainly on stasis charms to transplant the sapling, but as far as The Mums were concerned, he was a master gardener.

 “She was looking lovely when you brought her to see us. I’m astonished the post didn’t ruin her!”

 Harry nodded. “A real miracle,”

 “Sit down, sit down,” Campbell said, directing him to their dining-table. “Noodles!”

 She sat the large bowl of pasta in the center of the table for all to admire. Which Harry did, before serving himself a rather large portion.

 xXx

 Harry Potter. It’s fine. Draco had dealt with Potter before. He had dealt with him for six years. Of course, that wasn’t the main issue. 

“Potter just won’t be able to leave me alone once he realizes I’m here,” he explained to Pansy over lunch. 

 She gave him a hard look through her straight black bangs.

 “I’m serious, Pans. He’ll be too busy _apologizing_ when Merlin knows he doesn’t _need_ to! I’ll be bored to death of feeling guilty,”

 “Draco, darling,” she drawled, lifting a forkful of courgette noodles into her mouth. “We talked about this just the other day. I thought you were feeling better,”

 He pouted. “I was! It’s just-”

 “What you need,” Pansy interrupted. “Is a man. Take your mind off things. Give you something to work on,”

 Draco pulled a face. “My dating pool isn’t exactly large to begin with. As far as I know, there’s only one other wizard in this little town, and it’s Potter. Do you want me to date Potter?”

 Pansy took a sip of firewhisky, straight out the bottle. Draco didn’t know where it came from, but it was best not to speculate. “Do you need me to take that away from you?”

 She took another sip. “You could do a lot worse than Potter,”

 “Could do a lot better, too,” Draco muttered.

 “Before he disappeared the paps used to get rather nice pictures of him. He looked rather fit,” She remarked, gauging Draco’s reaction.

 “I can’t believe I’m having this discussion with you. I’m not going to hook up, or date, or, or, or do anything with Potter. It’s not happening,”

 “Why not?” She twirled her fork.

 Draco couldn’t resist. “First of all, the whole apologizing thing. I couldn’t let him feel sorry for me. Then, there’s his ugly face and skinny ankles. If he can’t pick me up and throw me across the room, I don’t want him. He’s too hotheaded, too, so he might actually pick me up and throw me across the room. That’s not ideal. Besides, he’s probably not even bent,” he finished, making Pansy’s fork fly away into the drawer, much to her disappointment.

 She was forced to turn to her nails. “So you haven’t been paying any attention to the papers in the past two years at all?” 

 “No. Why would I?”

 She gave all the airs of nonchalance. “I just thought you would’ve found some articles interesting, is all,” she said with a shrug. “It’s getting late. Until next time, darling.”

 He stood up from the flimsy card table in his living room. “It’s not like you have anything to do at your home,”

 “On the contrary, I have many important things to do. Like file my nails.” She sniffed. “They’re getting long,” She stepped into the floo. 

 Draco watched her leave.

 “I also assumed you had research to be getting to.”

 She left. 

 Always one to get the last word. Dramatic, the lot of them. Slytherins.

 “I don’t, in case you’re wondering. I’m going to be doing many things besides thinking about Potter. I’m so productive,” He said to the remains of his lunch. “I will! Just you watch,”

 He cleared away the dishes, sat at the table. He opened that last letter from Mr Ager. He put it away. He twiddled his fingers.

 “Stop that,” He said to them. “It’s not polite.”

 They stopped for half a minute, then started again.

 Draco sighed.

 “So this is what it’s going to be,” he sighed.

 Twenty minutes later, three hundred shrunken magazines arrived to him by post. 

 xXx

 Harry shoved another forkful of Campbell’s noodles into his mouth.

Elise was talking about her latest painting: a “flashback to the Art Nouveau movement mashed with Symbolistic techniques from the same era.” Harry didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he had practice nodding along to complicated theories. After all, Hermione could be the same way.

God, Hermione. He had called her the other day. She had asked him where he was and if he wanted to talk. He said of course he wanted to talk, ‘Mione,’ it’s why he called her. He asked about Ron. She and him were engaged, right? It’s been awhile. It has, she said. It’s been too long, Harry. Why did you leave? Because I didn’t want to stay, he had said. But he didn’t want to go over that again. S’not fun, he had said. S’not polite conversation, is it? 

“...right, Harry?” Elise said, snapping him out of the memory. 

“Sorry, what?”

Campbell looked concerned. “Y’alright there, Harry?”

“Yeah, yeah. So what’s this about Symbolism?”

xXx

To the innocent passerby, Draco must have looked like a serial killer. Or a very intense scrapbooker. Pages from magazines covered the empty wall across from the card table and his drawing of Mr. Ager (the asshole). They ordered chronologically from left to right. Draco was highlighting an article from a year and a half ago, several months before Potter disparaged the public of his presence. He had noticed a trend: the articles became more speculation-based instead of interview-based.

He decided to title this section of Potter’s public life “Final Straws.” 

Draco took a drink of his coffee (Santo Domingo beans for that soothing taste). Potter had stopped smiling in photographs at this point. He had just broken up with the Weaselette–Ginny. Weasley–Ron would have hexed him for that. For even thinking that. Ex-Death Eaters must be _kind_.

The articles caught Potter in increasingly disheveled poses. One, dated a month before his disappearance, showed him at a muggle supermarket in pajama pants smelling peaches. The caption read: Savior of the Wizarding World… Too Good For His Own Kind?

The Potter in the picture stiffened, then glanced at the camera. He flipped it the bird. He had dark rings under his eyes.

An article dated a week later caught him sleeping on a bench at the park. Is The Boy Who Lived Without A Home?, the caption wondered.

“I’m still living in my house,” Potter was quoted as saying. The writer speculated this was simply a front, and our beloved Savior’s home had been ransacked by vicious death eaters. Draco had to scoff at that; all the ex-death eaters were either laying low out of the country or in Azkaban. With the exception of him, of course. And his father, who was confined to house arrest more or less indefinitely.

Then came the period of approximately two months where the papers stopped printing about Potter altogether due to a lack of material. Draco marked the space as the “Shock Factor.”

Somebody tipped off the papers that Potter was vacationing in the Caribbean, and then there was review after review of Jamaican and Bahamian resorts. After the journalists wandered about in the Caribbean for a bit, they started printing absolute rubbish.

This was the “Cryptid Status” section.

Potter was in China, Potter was kidnapped, Potter was in India. Potter sightings became a sort of craze. Was he in Barbados, after all? Living in Canada, speaking French? This man looked sort of like him, let’s stalk him for a week. Here at _Witch Weekly_ , we heard if you look in the mirror, spin around, and say “Scarhead, scarhead, scarhead,” he’ll appear!

Okay, that one wasn’t in any paper or magazine Draco saw. But it might as well have been. The people’s savior had become the people’s resident bigfoot.

xXx

Harry took a seat on Campbell and Elise’s sofa, ready to digest their latest gossip. Hardly any of it was more than speculation, but Harry liked the rhythm. Harry liked predictability.

“And then Victor was just _nasty_ as usual! I can’t believe the nerve of that man,” Elise offered.

“Wanker,” Campbell agreed. “And he insulted you about picking up strays! The nerve of that man!”

“I already said that, dear,”

“Of course, love.” Campbell plowed on. “I hope he gets something nice for his wife’s birthday on Sunday. She deserves it,”

Elise nodded. “Do you think he needs any help? I know a couple lovely florists who send by post,”

“We should suggest it next time we see him around,”

“The crotchety old bugger,” Elise added for good measure. 

“Sounds like he’s being a real pain,” Harry jumped in.

Campbell looked startled. “He’s really a lovely old boy, isn’t he, Elise?”

“Oh yes, the most delicious bread. I really couldn’t ask for a better baker.”

This was the dance. Gossip, suggestion, dissent. All the dancers knew the tune, knew the steps. Joy comes from a flawless performance. Three dancers, lying and lying just for the kicks.

They discussed old George, his granddaughter Lydia, Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson of the pub, and all the people The Mums could think of. 

Harry got up and used the bathroom. As he was washing his hands, he glanced at the door across the hall. It was cracked open, which was odd. As far as he knew, nobody had used the guest bedroom since him about six months ago. 

He tried not to be curious, he really did. But he wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing. He walked up to the door and looked in. The covers had been recently mussed and a small pile of clothes sat in the corner. Harry pressed his hand against the door to get closer, but bumped it too strongly. A creak resonated throughout the flat. 

A moment of silence.

Elise broke it. “ _Pháiste_? What are you doing back there?” 

“Nothing,” He said too quickly. “I tripped,”

xXx

Draco was finding that Potter’s relationships were of immense speculation to front-page news and tabloids alike. Every so often Draco came across a spread of Potter in various locations with various women. Occasionally he looked disheveled, but more often than not it seemed Potter was simply having a nice lunch with a friend. 

Of Potter’s friends and associates from Hogwarts, only Luna Lovegood had remained untouched. Draco had made a list.

Ginevra didn’t really count, since they had (Draco was fairly certain) actually been shacking together for some time.

Granger had a total tally of fifteen relationship speculations, despite her rather public relationship with Weasley.

Gabrielle Delacour, despite having been pictured only twice, had the papers in uproar. Was a Potter/Delacour marriage possible? He saved her at the Triwizard when he was fourteen (which was basically lifelong love).

Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil had been spotted circling Potter, and it was rumored twice they were involved in some sort of threesome scheme.

But Potter wasn’t shagging his friends; of that Draco was certain. There were no telltale bruises, no crumpled clothes. And when he wanted to, Potter could hide. He had that damned invisibility cloak, for one, and probably a lifetime supply of polyjuice from his numerous contacts. 

If it wasn’t his old school-mates, then, just who was Harry Potter dating, or shagging, or whatever straight men do?

Draco couldn’t find the answer. The puzzle piece was missing. 

This was exactly what Pansy has wanted him to do.

Draco took a sip of his coffee. 

Pansy wanted him to play her game. She had been obsessed with finding him a lover since, well, since she had realized she couldn't be his. Probably thought she was doing him a favor, the cow. Merlin, he loved her. Always the same, always knew where he stood with her. She always let him in on her little games, especially when they concerned him.

He wrote a note on a slip of paper and sent it off. 

Two minutes later (precisely two, that is. Pansy was nothing if not precise) two magazines articles arrived at the window.

_With Love, Pansy,_ they said.

“Straight-Laced Savior–Anything But?” the first article was titled. It remarked on Potter’s apparent single status and his lack of motivation to find a new girlfriend, but had very little substance.

The second article, though. It had images. Muggle images, but images nonetheless. Potter, arm around a blond muggle man. Potter, hugging the waist of another muggle, taller than him this time, still blond. Potter, dancing in a muggle club. A gay muggle club. Potter, kissing a muggle woman. A man stood nearby, looking jealous. 

“Harry Potter, Seduction Artist?”

Draco laughed at the headline, but maybe there was something to it. First, muggle photographs. Potter was likely to ward against wizarding cameras, but if he was truly dating exclusively muggles, warding against muggle cameras would be inconvenient at best. Draco didn’t know a lot about muggles, but he did know they seemed very attached to their cameras. Second, the nature of the article gave its truth away. If there was only one article, the Harry Potter Cleanup Squad (aka Granger and Luna) was able to hush up the news before it reached major papers. If there was news to hush up, the news must be true. Harry Potter was at least a little bent, and he was very into blondes.

Potter was of interest. Much interest indeed.

With love, Pansy, indeed.

If Draco had been keeping track, which he definitely wasn’t, he now had two things over on Potter: 

  1. His Existence.



If Campbell and Elise had kept mum, Draco knew Potter was here. Potter didn’t know about Draco.

  1. His Sexuality.



If the going got tough, Draco could always try a good old-fashioned seduction attempt. If nothing else, Draco seemed to be his type in physicality.

It was a wonderful Wednesday afternoon to be alive. Draco left the articles strewn about the flat. He would continue preparing the shop for a couple hours, and then he would go see Campbell and Elise about a dinner.

xXx

Harry was gardening again. He had to make sure his little pear tree was adjusting well and all that. 

He stood up for a second, stretched his back. He had little boxes, all intending to be in neat rows but not quite accomplishing it. It was failed organization at its finest. And yet, Harry had found his vegetables and herbs grew best when they collaborated a little bit. Sure, they might not be the biggest basil plants around, but they tasted nice. And it was only him, after all. Him and Stella.

Speaking of Stella, the green beans needed a little weeding. Stella loved green beans. 

It was getting dark out. Though there weren’t many muggles around, Harry didn’t generally like to use lighting charms outside like this. What if he put up muggle repelling charms, and one of his neighbors needed to borrow some flour? It would be rude.

Also, he didn’t need to work any more than everyone else. That was something his mind healer had told him.

Harry whistled for his dog. She emerged from some bush or rabbit den and waited obediently by the back door for Harry to perform a few anti-flea/tick charms. Stella was on an anti-pest potion, but you could never really be too careful. 

It was about seven-thirty, and Harry dumped a few carrots and heads of kale on the kitchen counter. He turned on the radio and began cleaning them.

At eight he would water all the house-plants and herbs: the ferns at the entryway, figs in the bedroom, aloe and thyme in the downstairs bathroom, more aloe and lemon balm in the upstairs bathroom, and all the cooking herbs in the kitchen.

His house was very green, and sometimes dirty. Actually, mostly dirty. 

There was dirt everywhere.

But it’s not like many people came to visit, and those who did didn’t mind the dirt. Or the dog. Or the slightly warmer-than-necessary temperature. Or the furniture that didn’t match. Or Harry.

That was the kicker.

And so Harry cleaned his vegetables, watered his plants, made his dinner, talked to his dog. It was nice. It was simple. It was predictable. And he liked it. Harry Potter liked being the resident old man gardener, despite that he was only twenty. He was an old man at heart, goddamnit.

“Hey Stella,” He looked down at the big black mutt, currently laying across his legs as he sat in the overstuffed chair he had pinched from the Gryffindor common room before the Hogwarts people redid it. “What time do you suppose it is?”

She cocked her head and wagged her tail, but didn’t answer. As per usual.

“I suppose it’s about nine-thirty. So I think we need to get ready for–”

His phone rang.

Harry got up and walked over to the receiver to check who was calling.

He thought, really thought for a second about how easy it would be to let the call go to voicemail, pretend he had really disappeared, never talk to anyone again except the people in this little Scottish village.

But Harry picked up the phone.

“Hello, Ron,”

Should he go for a ‘what’s up?’ Is that you greet your best friend after you’ve been away for over a year? Should he ask about Hermione? He said nothing else.

“Hullo, Harry,” Ron said.

And they sat on the phone, not saying anything.

“I’m sorry–”

“I was wondering–”

They stopped. Harry waited until Ron started again.

“You’re not in the Carribbean, are you?” Ron didn’t sound mad. He sounded… exasperated.

The words came out all at once: “I’m sorry for lying to you,”

“No, I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to lie to me. Harry, I was your best friend,”

“You still are.”

Ron was silent for a moment. “Are there many people, where you are?”

“No, it’s pretty small. Hey, you’re an auror now, right? That must be interesting,”

“Yeah. You haven’t been reading the papers, right?” Ron sounded dreadfully professional, and Harry couldn’t tell if it was from talking on the phone or from talking to him.

“No, why?”

“No reason. Just wondering. You’re doing well, yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll come see you all soon. Maybe Christmas?”

“Yeah. Sounds good, mate. Glad you’re getting on,”

Harry tried to smile, show him he’s really getting on quite nicely, then remembered he didn’t have to. “If that’s all, I better be going. Things to do and all. I’ll talk to you soon.”

End call.

Harry sighed. 

“It’s ten, isn’t it, Stella?”

Stella looked up at him. She still didn’t answer.

“I say it’s time for us to perform another little muggle miracle of technology, don’t you think?”

Stella definitely said yes.

And half an hour later, Harry tuned into his broadcasting frequency and said words he knew that only his mind healer was listening to. And maybe George. 

But an unexpected listener was falling asleep at his Mums’ house while the Mums talked in hushed whispers about what should be done about the Boys, what happened to them, and how to go about getting them to meet one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a super fun chapter to write!! thanks for sticking with this. keep in mind this is a wip, but i'll try not to be so obnoxious about the next installment. junior year is wildin.


	5. Brazilian Santos

Turns out, Draco had everything handled. 

Draco spent the next day puttering around the future coffee shop. He’d cast the anti-dust and anti-pest charms, so the bones of the shop were set. Hours were spent laying plans for the furnishings and kitchening supplies, and he returned to Elise and Campbell’s home late that night. Or, he supposed, their home was really beginning to feel a little bit like his.

“Elise,” Draco asked at breakfast the next morning. “Where, exactly, does Harry Potter live? I should… like to meet his acquaintance again,”

Elise started, a ripple passing through her halo of grey hair. She shot a glance at Campbell, a glance that was returned with a slight widening of the eyes. It definitely meant something. Glances like those were always the equivalent of a two-hour verbal discussion. Problem is, Draco didn’t know what something it meant.

Campbell answered. “Go down the road about two kilos and his is the one with all the plants. If you just wanted to have a chat, then he’ll be around next Wednesday for lunch or maybe sooner,”

Draco nodded. His mind was working, making plans. “Thank you. I think I’m going to host a few of my friends today, so I won’t be around much.”

Campbell nodded. “I’m not your mother, lad–”

Elise raised an eyebrow at the dishes she was clearing.

“–but I’m glad you have friends who will come to you. Not everyone has that.”

Draco assisted in washing the dishes then left.

He soon alerted Blaise and Pansy via floo, and they were standing before Draco’s wall of articles and photographs in minutes. 

Pansy was, of course, very smug about the whole ordeal. She slunk against the folding chair, gazing at the collage of Potter’s love life. “I see you found the articles interesting?”

Draco narrowed his eyes, nodded, frowned. “I trust we all know about the reparations decisions? Yes?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. Blaise snorted. “Stop talking like a tosser, Draco. Just ask us for help like the scheming little fourth-year you are inside,”

Draco cleared his throat. “Mother suggested to me that we, ah,  _ convince _ Mr Potter to put in a word or two for us.” He ran a finger along a particularly large photograph of the Savior’s face.

Pansy was nodding along. “So, darling, what’s the first plan of attack? Groveling? Money? A good old seduction?”

Blaise laughed, a sound that seemed to bounce off the walls of the flat and into the street below it. “A seduction? Please. If you’re going that route, I’d better be in charge.” He took a look at the ‘Final Straws’ category of Potter’s recent life, his gaze lingering on the ‘Harry Potter: Seduction Artist’ article. “At least you’re his type,”

Draco pulled a face, but he felt his ears getting hot. Damn inbreeding, giving him these weaknesses. “Trust me, Blaise, seducing Potter is the last thing on my list. I’d rather seduce Albus Dumbledore,”

He could feel Pansy’s incredulous expression at the back of his head. He didn’t give it any credence. 

“So what’s the plan?” She asked, pointing her wand at the wall. An empty list formed, with ‘seduction’ written at number five.

“I was thinking just asking nicely,”

Silence.

“I mean, there’s nothing the Savior responds better to than guilt, right? And if I seem kind, earnest, and completely changed, he’ll be falling to his knees to help me,”

Pansy paused. “Don’t you mean ‘tripping over his feet?’”

Blaise snickered.

“Same thing,” Draco asserted.

“Better move seduction up to number four,” Blaise muttered to Pansy. 

Draco rolled his eyes carefully, to assure they absolutely didn’t notice the violent red he was sure his ears had turned. “I hate you both. What’s for lunch?”

They had absolutely noticed.

xXx

“Look, Potter. I just want what’s best for my mother,”

“So you aren’t selfish and are a totally changed and virtuous person?”

“Of course, Potter. I’m starting a coffee shop. Would a death eater drink coffee?”

“You’re so right, brilliant, and wonderful, Malfoy. I’m sorry for permanently marring your otherwise perfect physique by trying to kill you in sixth year.”

“Shit!” Draco said, frowning at the mirror. His reflection frowned back at him. He could never get that self-deprecating tone of Potter’s quite right.

Draco wondered what Potter looked like lately. He’d always been very skinny and a little short. 

Had he grown? Maybe Potter had taken up a penchant for outdoorsy work. Draco looked at his own pale, skinny arms in the mirror. Maybe Potter had a beard. Maybe it would look good on him, be neatly groomed. Or maybe, Draco reminded himself, Potter has the nasty sort of moustache that catches little bits of food in it. Potter is probably absurdly out of shape, can barely move from the couch. Or better yet, disturbingly skinny. Skeletal, matter of fact. He was definitely wearing the same broken wire-framed glasses from first year. Definitely. And Potter has halitosis, foot fungus, and all sorts of infections. Draco would be doing him a favor by showing up to his door. 

He took a deep breath, ruffled his hair in the mirror, took a sip of coffee. It was just a conversation. Draco had those all the time.

The walk to Potter’s house was, if nothing else, wet. It had started to rain. At least this way, Draco thought, Potter would have no choice but to invite him in. What kind of cruel, unfeeling individual would throw a person out in the rain?

The street was paved, but the cobblestones were covered with a layer of dirt capable of stealing a shoe. Draco cast a buoyancy charm. Two kilos. 

Two kilometers.

That isn’t very many. The Manor was over ten at its widest point. And much muddier. Draco had run the length of it as a fourth year for fun and again in his seventh for other reasons. He had been faster seventh year. 

The average person walked five kilometres per hour. That meant he should be at Potters house in approximately 24 minutes.

There weren’t many houses this direction. The main street ran north/south, and Draco was walking south. From what he’d gathered, Campbell and Elise were on the more southern end of town. The stores they visited for groceries were slightly north, and George’s Electronic Reparations was on the more northern end.

Abford was a small town.

The rain had stopped at a drizzle, which Draco was marginally thankful for. A pair of sheep were chewing thoughtfully on the road. He looked for the flock, but they were a fair distance away on the side of a hill. 

Draco started rehearsing his opening speech. He could start strong, like ‘Potter, I have a problem only you can help me with.’ Or maybe a weak, pitiful opening such as ‘Potter, I’m so sorry to disturb you, but you’re the only person I can turn to.’

He followed a bend in the road.

A dog barked. It was a big, black mutt. Its beard grew into five or six muddy dreadlocks at the end and her ears were in much the same condition so Draco would have assumed it was a stray if not for the green collar around her neck. 

He knelt down and held his hand out. “Hey, where are you from?” he asked. 

It didn’t answer and instead sniffed his hand cautiously. Draco gave it a scratch behind the ears. It seemed to enjoy it.

“Mind telling me who you belong to? I’m looking for Potter, if you know him, and I need all the allies I can get.” He stopped petting it for a second, and the dog pawed him impatiently. It barked again.

A stupidly familiar voice rang through the drizzly street. “Where’d you run off to, old girl? Who are you making friends with now?”

Draco could do nothing but watch the ground as Harry Potter approached him. Potter was looking at the dog.

“I’m so sorry about her,” He said, pulling a treat from his pocket and crouching down. “She does this homeless attention seeking act.” The dog bounded into Potter’s arms. “Dunno why, she gets more’n enough attention at home.”

Draco bit his lip and stayed crouched. Maybe if he looked into the ground intensely enough, it would swallow him whole. This wasn’t how the meeting was supposed to happen.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” Potter continued, offering Draco a hand. “You’ll have to introduce yourself.”

Draco played with the idea of running away, maybe immigrating to the States. He could ask Lydia for some rips. He took a deep breath to steady himself and took Potter’s hand.

He met Potter’s eyes and the recognition he found in them was almost comical. They were kind, smiling at the edges at first, then they squinted and the irises darted around, scanning Draco’s face. Finally, they widened and Potter snatched his hand away.

“What the fuck? Leave, Malfoy.” He said, all remnants of relaxation gone from his body. “I’m not interested in any interviews for whatever shit reporter you’ve got up your sleeve.”

Draco drew himself up everywhere but the shoulders. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but you’re–”

“I don’t care. How did you even find me? Don’t answer that,” He turned around. “I better not see you again. Fuck.”

Draco said nothing. Potter’s back reminded him of something. The jumper, the hair, the jeans. When he realized, he nearly swore (that’s a lie, he did swear). Potter had been the man Draco had seen on his first day with Campbel and Elise, the one with the parcel, the fit one.

He supposed if one squinted a bit and wrinkled one’s nose Potter could be considered fit, at least the back view of him. The face was, of course, hideous. Draco’s perceptions were addled that day, so he couldn’t be to blame. And he had remembered that man as tall. Potter was not, had never been, and will not ever be tall.

Draco ducked off the street and apparated into his flat. He looked at the hand Potter had taken. If he thought about it, Draco could feel Potter’s strong grip hoisting him upright. His hands had been dirty and slightly damp. Rough and calloused, too. The kind of hands used to manual labor. But warm and strong, definitely. A strong grip. A strong grip to hoist him upright.

It was probably from Potter spending his days doing something unsavory. Like tile-work, except from tiling came mosaics, and mosaics were refined. Potter could never be refined. He probably just sat in his garage and did pushups or something aggressively masculine like that. 

He walked to the bathroom, looked in the mirror to study himself. He looked like a drowned rat, fine hair plastered against his forehead, fuzzy on top from humidity. He had mud on his hands and all down his legs from Potter’s dumb dog. Draco turned on the shower. 

He frowned, water pouring down his back. The dog had been nice. Can’t fault her for being attached to Potter. If being overly attached to Potter was a sin, the vast majority of the wizarding world would be rotting in hell.

He washed and dried himself, then he went back to the living room.

Weasley. He needed Ron Weasley. There’s a fair chance he knew something about the re-inspection decision, or maybe his fiancee did. Granger was some sort of lawyer-figure, if Draco was remembering correctly. 

He threw floo powder in the fireplace, then checked the clock. It was only 4, so still office hours.

“Malfoy, I’m sorry about the Harry thing. I wasn’t...” Weasley stopped for a second. 

Draco stared at him blankly for a second, thinking Weasley somehow found out about his meeting with Potter in the rain.

“I wasn’t meaning any harm and hey, sometimes the people we love surprise us. If you really want to move, it can be arranged,”

“I’m not calling about Potter. I need to know about the Wizengamot decisions and how long I have,”

“For the Manor?”

Draco nodded.

“It’ll be the first they go after. Other than that, I dunno. Do you want me to connect you to Hermione?” Weasley asked. 

Granger? Weasley really just suggested that Draco talk to Hermione Granger about saving the Manor she was tortured in. Interesting. 

“Yes,” he said. 

Weasley’s face disappeared into the green flames for a few seconds. The flames flickered and blurred, then Granger’s face appeared.

“Granger–” Draco started.

“Call me Hermione,” she said, “And if you’re going to apologize, please do it in writing so I can frame it. Owl me at, well, tell the owl to go to my office. I don’t have time for apologies today. You’re trying to stop the re-inspection?”

Draco nodded. “I believe my family has paid enough. Besides, the ministry would have to demolish the house if they want to use it for anything without an heir. Old bloodline magic,”

Hermione surprised him. Her brow was furrowed, but it was in concentration. “The ministry is targeting your property, as it is the only location they listed as having potential Dark magic,”

“Which is, of course, true, because old bones like the Manor soak up magic like… like…”

“A sponge?”

“Exactly. They’ll be able to find enough Dark magic to take the Manor, but the magic is so diluted it’s basically harmless. The Manor magic expels what is unwanted, but with Lucius as the heir…” Draco trailed off. Most people knew why Lucius’s sentence was lifted.

“You won’t be able to banish the magic until Lucius dies. Which,” she added, seeing Draco’s expression, “will likely not be in the next month or two.”

“And without the Manor, Lucius and Mother won’t have anywhere to live and our family history would be good as lost. Not to mention the grounds. Can you help me?” he finally asked.

Hermione ran a hand through her hair. She had started wearing it brushed out into an afro. It was a good look on her. “Malfoy–”

He prepared for disappointment.

“I’d actually love to. I’m a freelanced law consultant and defendant, and if you’d be willing to pay me I’ll do what I can to bring the case to Wizengamot. I do have to warn you, they aren’t my biggest fans after the house elf case I brought last year. But I do believe they are planning to use your property to pay for their salaries rather than any improvement to public properties. That’s immoral,”

“How soon can you get the case together? Money isn’t much of an issue,”

She winced. “It may be over a month. I’ll see what Ron can do to stop the Aurors from the inspection, but we need a larger campaign. Ron mentioned to me…”

Draco leaned forward.

“That you knew where Harry is," she continued. "If you can convince him to help, he’d be your best chance.”

“Hermione,” he said. She started at the sound of her given name, then seemed to remember she asked him to call her that. “I met him earlier today. He said he didn’t want to see me again,”

She sighed. “Malfoy, or should I call you Draco?”

He didn’t answer. He had a reputation to maintain after all. Just because he was asking for help from Gryffindors didn’t mean he couldn’t be a bitch about it.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re going to have to try again, and you’re going to have to keep trying. If I know Harry, which I like to think I do, he’ll get bored of turning you away and will eventually listen to what you have to say. And he may not agree with your case, but he testified for you and your mother once, and I have reason to believe he’ll do it again,”

The floo flickered, ready to switch back to the call with Weasley.

“Why did Potter testify for me the first time?” He asked, but Hermione’s face disappeared. 

Weasley rubbed his ear. “Did you ask me something, Malfoy?”

Draco shook his head. “No. Thank you for connecting me to your fiancee. Tell her I’ll owl her.”

“Isn’t she the greatest? I’ll tell her. Have a good day, Malfoy.”

“You too, Weasley.” Draco said, ending the call. He found he meant it.

xXx

Campbell and Elise had packed him a lunch. He carried a hot cup of Brazilian Santos coffee, known for its warm, almost chocolatey flavor. It was a gorgeous sunny day (rare in this part of the country) and Draco was walking to Potter’s house. It was 10 o’clock in the morning and Draco was strictly on business duty. 

Yesterday the man on the radio had complained about meeting an old acquaintance and Draco couldn’t have related more. His acquaintance, whom he called ‘Posh Spice,’ seemed like quite the arsehole, bullying him in school unprovoked and such. 

Draco came to the same bend in the road Potter’s dog had been lurking at yesterday. The two sheep from yesterday were there instead.

“ _ Bonjour, monsieurs _ ,” he said. “ _ vous deux avez l'air beau aujourd'hui.” _ Mother had taught him the language as a young boy. She had always been fond of France.

The sheep seemed to nod to him, and Draco went on his way. He forced himself to remain relaxed. Loosen your shoulders, he told himself, Potter can smell your fear.

Campbell had said he’d know the house when he saw it due to all the plants. Draco stopped in front of a white clapboard two-story. Every window seemed to have its own plant, not to mention the vegetable garden sprawling from behind. Daisies littered the space under the porch.

Draco walked up the steps and poised to knock. His knuckles rapped the green-painted wood of the front door. He heard the dog bark and felt the telltale ripple of wards alerting the owner. Surprisingly, Potter hadn’t warded against Draco. That wasn’t a bad sign.

Potter swung the door open, took one look at him, then closed the door in his face. Draco sighed and took a seat on the steps. He sipped his coffee. Potter would have to come out and see him sometime. 

The sun dragged itself through the sky. It had started to glare most uncomfortably. Draco had taken to throwing little bits of sandwich into the street to lure the two sheep closer and closer.  He had just managed to get the larger one to eat out of his hand when the door swung open.

“Hello, Potter,” Draco said, not turning around. “Lovely day.”

Potter muttered a few choice words and stormed back inside. If he was planning on continuing such behavior, he might wear the floorboards of his house straight out; such stomping couldn’t be sustainable.

Draco pet the larger of the sheep. It nuzzled into his hand. He heard a crunch and turned to see the other sheep eating out of his packed lunch.

“Don’t do that, you  _ connard _ ! For that, I’m going to name you something horrible. Probably after the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. He’s a real arsehole sometimes. What do you think of  _ le mouton qui a vécu?” _

The sheep seemed indifferent. That was alright with Draco.

He noticed Potter apparated across the street. How inventive. Draco smirked and gave a little wave. He cast a tempus charm; it was past four. That was enough protesting for today.

Draco showed up at Potter’s house at ten-twenty precisely again the next day. He milled about on the stairs, made a general inconvenience of himself, then left.

The next day was much the same, except Lydia stopped by. They had a lovely conversation about the properties of newt’s eyes and the possible more humane substitution of mustard seed. 

“What brings you to Harry’s house, Draco?” She had finally asked.

“I’m staging a protest. He doesn’t want to talk to me, so I’m going to mildly inconvenience him until he’s forced to.”

She nodded, albeit a bit uncertainly. “Good luck, then. I’ll leave you to it.”

And so she left, and then Draco left at four.

He started convincing the sheep to eat Potter’s daisies. It was going swimmingly thus far; nearly a quarter of the supply had been damaged. He decided to name the other one Lola. 

A week of this went by with no results. Draco sat at his card table, staring at the collage wall. The list Pansy and Blaise had made was still intact: 1. , 2. , 3. , 4. Seduction, and 5.  Seduction.  Draco had made a list of his own next to it.

  1. Asking Nicely (This was crossed out)
  2. Find someone else (this was possible, yet highly unlikely)
  3. Sit-in (Draco’s patience was rapidly running out)



His eyes slid to the list next to it. 4. Seduction. He sighed, rolled his eyes like the dramatic queen he was. 

“I’m not doing it. I’m not seducing Harry Potter,” he said to no one in particular.

The silence was unimpressed.

“I simply will not!” Draco demanded of it. “And you can’t make me.”

The silence mocked him.

He sighed. “If this backfires like I know it will, I’m holding you responsible.”

The silence laughed at him. Mission: Seduce Potter was in effect. Draco started drawing up plans immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all october is over!! the busiest season of the year: done. I should be able to update a little more often now, hopefully I'll have another one up in 2-3 weeks. life update: i'm officially a junior varsity tennis player now. three sport letterman: achieved. i'm a jock now. be afraid.


	6. Curio

Harry peeked outside: no Malfoy in sight. He checked the time. It was well past ten-twenty. The git had been _loitering_ on his front porch for the past week. That had to be illegal. Of course, it’s not like Harry could press charges without revealing himself. Damn hermitude.

It was Wednesday and he couldn’t very well apparate into the Mum’s house, given they were muggles. He could imagine their faces if he suddenly appeared in the spare bedroom or something. Campbell would demand where he came from and Harry could never lie to her. Elise, on the other hand, would just pretend she remembered him walking in. He smiled to himself.

Stella whined behind him, pawing the back of his thigh. 

“Woah there, girl. I’m heading out the door right now, I promise,”

Stella was a creature of routine. 

Harry pulled on his trainers and walked out the door, Stella bounding happily behind him. He kept his eyes trained on the shadows, that one week of Auror training kicking in. The white-blond shock of hair evaded him, or maybe it wasn’t there at all. Maybe, he hoped, Malfoy had made it a week and decided he wasn’t going to get Harry to talk to him. Maybe this would be the end of it.

Stella zig-zagged through the mostly empty street. She sniffed every rock, peed on every patch of grass. Stella was just such a dog, and Harry loved her for it.

He turned into the Mum’s bookstore, vibrant and orange as always. Stella, of course, stayed outside. Once in, he noticed a stack of books perched precariously on an overstuffed armchair. The top one was a trashy gay porn novel (Harry still didn’t know why Campbell stocked those things). The second one was clearly used. Nearly half the pages had been dog-eared at some point and “D. Malfoy” was written on the bottom of it in sharpie. 

Harry flipped the book over, looking at the title. It was Shakespeare’s _Twelfth Night_. He pulled out his wand and did a quick diagnostic charm to check for curses. Malfoys didn’t exactly have a good record with books and bookstores. The charm flickered blue, signifying there was no magical presence. He ran a thumb over the pages, exposing annotations in different colored inks on almost every page. 

How curious. Harry shrunk and pocketed the book.

The door at the top of the staircase opened with a creak. Elise stood on the landing.

“Harry! We nearabout thought you had skipped down without saying goodbye!”

“Hello, Elise,” he said, walking over to and up the staircase, “What’ve you scrapped together today?”

She gave him a hug. “Chicken parm. And do take your shoes off before coming in. Aina just vacuumed,”

On cue, Campbell bustled up to the entryway. “Come in, Harry, lad. The food will get cold!”

Harry sincerely doubted that, but came in anyway, making sure to take off his trainers. Looking at them, he supposed they were a little grey where they should be white, and a little brown where they should be grey. He referred to it as ‘worn-in.’ 

Elise had finished setting out the last fork when Harry sat down. 

“I don’t suppose you know anything about the little blond lad who’s been moping around?” Campbell asked.

Harry choked on the bite of chicken he had just put into his mouth. “Too much, I’d reckon,”

Elise raised her eyebrows and a hint of something appeared in the corners of her eyes that might have been delight. “How so?”

“We went to school together. Aren’t on the best of terms,”

“Must’ve made a pretty strong impression for you to know who he is without his name,”

Harry felt his face heat as he realized the mistake.

“Honestly, Elise, it’s not like that. Malfoy and I were right enemies. Tortured each other, even. And I don’t mean figuratively. He broke my nose.” He shoved some chicken in his mouth.

Campbell nodded sagely. “That sort of thing tends to leave an impression. So how about George’s new little garden? You should give him some tips,”

“I’m pretty sure Lydia has it under control, but I’ll stop by today or tomorrow,” he said, and just like that, the conversation shifted. Malfoy was seemingly forgotten.

They had all finished the chicken when Campbell stood up. “I think I left some cash in the register downstairs. Elise, do you mind coming with me? Harry, if you could finish the washing-up, that would be great,”

She and Elise rushed out the door before Harry had the chance to narrow his eyes and declare he smelled a rat. He sighed, gave the dishes a quick scourgify, then flicked his wrist to send them to the correct cabinets.

A thought crossed his mind. Last Wednesday, he’d peeked into the spare bedroom and it had been all lived-in. With the Mums downstairs, he’d have plenty of time to snoop around. Or investigate. Investigate it was.

He set up a temporary warding charm to let him know when they came back upstairs. He felt a little guilty doing it, but honestly, if he didn’t know who was staying in that room he’d probably have a conniption. At this point, snooping was just self-care.

Harry crept down the hall. The door was closed, this time. He tried the door handle; it was locked. He was about to creep back down the hall when he remembered he was a wizard and unlocked it. The door opened and the first thing he noticed was the darkness. The blinds on the windows had been shut, but if that had just been the case then a little light should have been trickling through. He squinted. Then he looked down.

Someone was sleeping on the bed. They shifted. Harry cast a disillusionment charm.

The figure pulled the sheets off themselves revealing a sweatshirt-and-boxer-clad Draco Malfoy. 

Harry was too startled to do the sensible thing (hexing Malfoy and running away). Actually, that wouldn’t be the honorable thing, though. Malfoy was evidently staying at the Mum’s as a guest. So wasn’t it Harry’s responsibility to save them from the impending evil and scheming devices of Draco Malfoy? 

Or maybe Harry just didn’t much feel like getting into a duel today. He watched as Malfoy squinted at the time and pulled his wand from under the pillow. With a wave at the window, light began trickling through the blinds. 

Malfoy rose from the bed, letting the blanket fall off him, then he folded it neatly and placing it on the corner. His sweatshirt had risen to somewhere around his mid-back, showing Harry the knobbly bumps of his spine. Malfoy’s ribs stuck out not prominently, but reasonably enough that Harry could tell where they ended. The skin covering them was smooth and pale, and the stripes of light from the blinds formed a pleasing sort of pattern over them. Malfoy adjusted his sweatshirt, pulling it back down to his hips. Harry felt his gaze drifting downward, then checked himself and started analyzing Malfoy’s hair.

There was a mirror sitting in the far corner, and Harry had to move to watch Malfoy through it. 

Malfoy bent down to pick up a few articles of clothing from a small duffel bag and held them against himself, frowning slightly. He was mumbling something to himself, Harry realized. 

“Potter… not a fan… green,” Harry caught, followed by, “red… too Gryffindor.”

He realized Malfoy was flipping through jumper colors. He sure did have a lot of jumpers, it seemed. 

Then Harry remembered his own wardrobe, which was majority old Weasley sweaters. 

Malfoy had decided on a dark blue jumper and was holding it up in front of the mirror. The color matched his skin well and highlighted the shine of his hair. Hair which, Harry noticed with a bit of a smile, was currently sticking up in several different directions. It was a far cry from the stiff, gelled style he had worn it in when they were younger. Malfoy ran a hand through it, scattering the dust particles in the light. He looked good, Harry realized. Malfoy hadn’t done too badly for himself these past three years. 

The last time Harry had seen Malfoy (before this week, of course) was at the trial. If he was skinny now, Malfoy had been emaciated before. There had been dark circles around his eyes and Harry could still recall the dead, haunted look in them. Sometimes, if Harry was being honest, those eyes woke him up in a cold sweat nearly once a month. 

Malfoy’s eyes slid in the mirror to the door, right at where Harry was standing. Harry felt his blood run cold. The dust particles in the air, the ones that had highlighted Malfoy’s sharp cheekbones and proud jawline, would be disturbed by any sort of unseen presence. Like Harry.

Careful not to breathe too sharply, he inched out of the room before Malfoy could confirm his existence. 

Once outside, he let out a huge breath, but he maintained the disillusionment charm. Sure enough, Malfoy stuck his head into the hall. His gaze drifted toward Harry, but slid right over him. Seemingly satisfied that he was alone, Malfoy continued to the bathroom.

Harry had the self preservation to not follow him, and the door shut swiftly. The sound of the shower startled him a bit. Did Death Eaters shower? Malfoy had seemed clean. Maybe only poncy git Death Eaters took showers. Poncy git _reformed_ Death Eaters, Harry reminded himself. Malfoy hadn’t done anything explicitly bad in the past week. He hadn’t called the press or anything. That was something.

Steam oozed through the crack where the bathroom door met doorway. Harry heard some sort of muffled noise coming from inside. He pressed his ear up to the door and could just make out what Malfoy was saying.

“‘Yes, of course, Potter, I’m not trying to murder you. I’m only trying to ask for your help’

‘Draco–er–Malfoy! That’s ridiculous! I hate helping people and exist only to make your life difficult!’”

The statement was made in a deep caricature of a voice. Harry nearly laughed when he realized it was meant to be him.

“‘But even Hermione asked me to ask you!’

‘Don’t you dare mention Hermione! Wait, why aren’t you calling her Granger, or muggleborn, or other terrible things!’

‘Because I actually talk to her, Potter,’”

Harry could hear the smirk and drawl creep into Malfoy’s voice. His fists clenched almost involuntarily.

“Don’t mention Hermione, Draco. That would be so counterproductive. You want him to like you, you whore,”

This was said in Malfoy’s normal voice, the one he used when talking to Pansy or Blaise at school, not the one used for tormenting Harry or anyone else. 

“‘Let’s try again.'

‘Potter, I have a terribly important issue only you can help me with. You see, now that the Wizengamot thinks you’ve gone and died–’

‘That’s good, Draco! A little poke at the Saviour will get him emotionally invested. A spot of genius,’

‘Now that you’ve gone and died they think they can sell the Manor to cover their salary increases. Disgusting, I know. And I know this is a huge favor, but I need a word, just a little measly letter with a lock of your hair or something to identify it and tell them the Boy Who Lived thinks they’re arseholes. Easy right?’

‘Of course, Draco, you’re brilliant! I regret marring your perfect physique in the bathroom! I think about it day and night with no reprieve! I’m so sorry for my lapse in judgement! But just between you and me, I think they’re very sexy!’”

They’re _what?_

“‘Potter, I thought you’d never acknowledge it! I really did think all that stalking was for naught. But how should I know my schoolboy crush was finally requited? I’m so glad you decided to listen to reason,”

 _Schoolboy crush? Reason?_ Harry had to fight the urge to slam open the bathroom door and deliver a stinging hex to Malfoy’s nethers so potent the git couldn’t sit down for weeks.

And where the hell were the Mums? Harry pulled on his trainers and opened the door to the bookshop. He looked down, and Campbell and Elise were just sitting in a corner reading. Elise was in the middle of whispering something to Campbell. Harry cleared his throat.

They looked up guiltily. Probably in cahoots with Malfoy. He’d imperiursed them or something. Or even worse, they were helping him _of their own free will._

Elise spoke up. “Sorry for keeping you waiting, love. We’ll be up right now if you want,”

Harry smiled apologetically. “I have to go now, sorry. I expect Stella’s getting anxious outside,”

Campbell moved from her chair. “Of course, poor dear. Well, give her our love!”

He nodded and all but ran out of the store. Stella jumped up and licked his hands. He pushed her down with a light smile. “No, Stella. We have espionage to do.”

Harry ducked into the alley and apparated directly into his house. He summoned an old pair of extendable ears and apparated back. “Miss me, dog?”

She did, of course. 

He cast a muffliato over her and together they leaned into the side of the building. He sent the extendable ears snaking up the side of the shop towards the window. 

“–any leftovers?” Campbell was saying “I know you planned to join us for lunch, but he was already gone,”

“Yes, please,” Malfoy said. “Did you find the book I was looking for?”

“Oh yes, and I was flipping through it a bit downstairs!” Elise said.

Harry felt a bit foolish. Here he had been, smelling rats and forming conspiracies when all the Mums had been doing was helping their new stray find a book. And knowing his dislike for Malfoy, they hadn’t wanted to upset him. He was about to reel in the extendable ears when something Campbell said piqued his notice:

“So, Draco, has everything gone according to pl–”

“This is really good!” He said, interrupting her. 

A ringing sound shot through the ears. Harry reeled them back only to find there was nothing left at the end of the tubes; the ear part had been cursed off. 

He squinted at them. Something fishy was definitely going on and it was all Malfoy’s fault. But if he knew the Mums, he knew they would never snitch on a friend. And if he knew Malfoy, he knew the Mums didn’t know the whole of the plan. 

Harry walked home, plotting. He knew what Malfoy had said in the shower. That had certainly seemed like he was rehearsing for something. When Malfoy was picking out jumper colors, he had also said something about Harry’s color preferences. How did Malfoy even know his color preferences? It wasn’t like he hated green. His bloody eyes were green! Plants were green. Hell, Harry even had green jumpers. And besides, he didn’t think red was a Gryffindor color. Even though it was. If you went to Hogwarts and weren’t a Gryffindor, you basically aren’t allowed to wear red. It’s the rules. He shook his head to clear himself of that train of thought.

But if Malfoy was planning to meet him today, would he come to his house again? It had seemed like Malfoy had wanted to have Wednesday lunch with him, but Harry knew a Slytherin denied an inch would take an inch from somewhere else. He couldn’t go back home. 

“Hey, Stella,” he said. “What do you think about visiting Luna today?”

Stella, of course, was ecstatic.

xXx

“So, Harry, you’re absolutely sure he’s up to no good? It sounds to me like he just wants your attention,” Luna said. Reasonable as always.

“That’s exactly the point!” He said, jumping out of his stool at her kitchen counter. “He wants my attention, and I won’t give it to him,”

She patted the stool. It was the intense sort of green that gave you a headache if you looked at it too closely. “Take a seat. And didn’t he say you wouldn’t even have to talk to him? Just send an owl to the Wizengamot and tell them to stall the enforcement of the re-inspection bill. You won’t even have to see Draco. Here, I’ll help you write it,”

“And will this get him to leave me alone?”

“Absolutely. Would you like some kvass? I’ve been working on my recipe,”

“Sure, Luna.”

xXx

Seduction it was not. But it was the start of something, Draco was sure. One didn’t often humiliate themselves in the shower without it turning into _something_. Maybe it was more enmity, maybe it was more humiliation. But Draco knew this: Potter would no longer be able to ignore him. 

xXx

The letter sent off, Harry retired to his house. It was nearly eight, so he watered all his plants. First, the ferns at the entryway, then figs in the bedroom. Third, aloe and thyme in the downstairs bathroom, fourth was more aloe and lemon balm in the upstairs bathroom. Last, but his favorite were all the cooking herbs in the kitchen.

Harry sat in the overstuffed armchair from the Gryffindor common room, Stella at his feet, and unshrunk the book he had stolen that morning. 

Twelfth Night. William Shakespeare. D. Malfoy on the bottom.

He opened the book. A small note was written on the inside cover.

_For Draco,_

_I hope your time in my program has been most educational. I think you should like this work very much, if you haven’t read it already. I have to say, you’ve been my favorite to teach, and by far the most successful. I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up living in a muggle neighborhood for some time. Don’t laugh, I have faith in you. Consider this a graduation gift._

_Sincerely,_

_Janine Blevins_

Harry had known Malfoy had been required to take some sort of muggle culture classes. This must have been from the teacher. He’d never heard of her.

_ACT 1. SCENE 1. DUKE ORSINO’S PALACE._

_Enter DUKE ORSINO, CURIO, and other lords, musicians attending._

_DUKE ORSINO_

_If music be the food of love, play on;_

This and the rest of the speech was highlighted in pink, and the note in the margin said: “times Orsino is a dramatic bitch”

_CURIO_

_Will you go hunt, my lord?_

Harry smirked a bit reading this. He could imagine Duke Orsino laid out on a sofa or a divan or something, writing poetry to an unknown lover. Curio was just tired of his shit. 

_What, Curio?_

Harry flipped to a dog-eared page in the middle. 

_VIOLA_

_This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;_

_And to do that well craves a kind of wit:_

_He must observe their mood on whom he jests,_

A note was stuck over the rest of the speech. He tried to pull it, but found it was magically stuck. So he unstuck it, then pulled it off.

 _Potter_ ,

_I hope I’m not overreaching my welcome, here, but I wanted to know if you could perhaps spare a bit of a conversation? I have a couple of things to discuss with you. You can send your reply by owl, or word of mouth, or not at all. But I’ll be at my flat at 2pm tomorrow and Friday. Keep in mind, the store is a bit chaotic right now. I’m renovating._

_Sincerely,_

_D. Malfoy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was entirely Harry omg i'm spoiling y'all. also obvious: i speed wrote this chapter holy crap you guys. i've been publishing as soon as i write them and wow. i just had to crank this one out for y'all. the next update should be before december if i'm being optimistic. but, feel free to bother me if it takes me more than a month to update


	7. Kona (again)

Potter was late. Or maybe, he wasn’t coming at all. Draco had thought his note had been polite, yet succinct. Brief, yet compelling. That’s what Blaise had told him to do. Arrange a meeting, he said. Start with a clear, serious topic, then let it ramble. If you want Potter to stick around, he’ll want to, simple as that. Mirroring or something.

It’s fine, Draco reminded himself as he flipped through paint color cards, he gave Potter two days, anyway. And it’s not like the Aurors were going to ransack the Manor this very day. Weasley was supposedly keeping them at bay.

A knock startled him. He got up from his seat on the floor and opened the door, expecting a dark scribble of hair and wire-framed glasses. 

“Hello, Draco,” said Luna Lovegood (whose hair could be described as many things, but dark was not one of them). “I was hoping you were in,”

“Of course, Luna,” he said, stepping back to invite her in. “But there’s a window in the front. You could’ve just looked,”

She was clearly appalled. “But that would be so rude. I think you should go with the green, by the way,”

He looked back at his paint cards. “I didn’t pick a green,”

“Look again.”

Sure enough, he flipped through the cards again and a soft forest green has appeared in between the beige and the eggshell.

Draco picked it up and held it to the wall. “Don’t you think it’s too bright?”

“Not for the wall, silly,” She snatched it out of his hand and held it up. “For the ceiling. I’ll want to paint it first,”

He moved to stand beside her and looked up. “Actually, I was thinking I’d just charm–what do you mean you’ll paint it first?”

Luna gave him another one of her I-can’t-believe-you’re-being-this-ridiculous looks. “I’m painting your ceiling, Draco. It’s the least I can do,”

Draco didn’t exactly know what to do with that last comment, so he let it lie. “Coffee?” He asked instead, gliding to the skeleton of a kitchen he had set up. 

“Of course.” Luna dusted a spot off in the center of the to-be store and sat down. “I think it’ll be quite nice, especially since all the Squoggles are gone,”

“Thanks for getting rid of those, by the way. Kona again?” He picked up the package of beans to pour into the grinder.

She was making piles out of the filth on the floor. “Extra fancy. Isn’t Harry supposed to be here by now?”

Draco nearly spilled the beans all over the dirty floor. “Yes. But I said he could be here tomorrow, as well,”

Luna looked up. Her huge silvery eyes beamed up at him. “Don’t worry. He will be.”

Draco brewed the coffee as Luna continued to make mounds of dust and dirt. The first row was lined up straight as soldiers, but after that they devolved into some sort of pattern. He picked up the two mugs and walked to sit next to her.

“Wait, Draco,”

He stopped.

“Look.” She said. And Draco looked at the little mounds she had made. He raised himself up on his tiptoes and the little mounds formed a pair of sheep.

“I saw them on my way over loitering by some daisies. You don’t happen to know anything about that, do you? Harry was quite pleased. He’d been meaning to plant something new around the front of his house for ages, but hadn’t gotten around to removing the flower beds.” She fixed her overlarge eyes on him again, and Draco couldn’t help but give her a little smile.

“Of course I wasn’t trying to help Potter,” he said, stepping carefully around the portraits to give her the coffee. “You know they have names, though, right?”

She took a sip. “Really?”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “Just don’t tell anyone I’m the one who named them. The larger one,” he pointed to its portrait, “is named Lola. And the other one is  _ le mouton qui a vécu,” _

“The sheep who lived,” Luna translated. “Draco, you’re a genius. Just don’t go about letting Potter know how much you know about him.”

She said ‘Potter’ in a poor imitation of Draco’s voice. It was a tad too drawn-out and pretentious-sounding for Draco’s like, but it would have to do. Not everyone has a talent for imitation like he does.

“Well!” She said, getting up and patting the dust and dirt off her cardigan. “I’m off. Thanks for the coffee!” She did a complicated sort of dance through her painstakingly arranged portraits of the sheep, throwing the dust up into the air and forcing Draco to put a hand over his coffee mug. “Call me when you’re ready for the ceiling!”

He waved her off, smiling to himself. Nonsensical as Luna can be, she tended to come by right when he needed a good distraction. Almost like magic.

Draco’s wards alerted him to an incoming floo call. He looked back at the front window, as if Potter would walk by as soon as he left. But he remembered Luna’s assurance and walked upstairs to take the call.

Hermione’s excited face appeared in the green flames. “Malfoy. What did you do to Harry?”

“What I.. what?” There was no way his plan from yesterday had actually worked. It had been a crack dream of a plan, imagined by him and Blaise only to pique interest, not to actually incite a response. 

“Hang on. I’m coming over,” she said, disappearing for a moment.

“You’re what?!” Draco’s eyes flicked to the Harry Potter scrapbook page he had attached to the wall. He scrambled for his wand. Where had he put the blasted thing? He had just had it with him, downstairs when he was making the coffee. 

He grabbed the drawing of Orion N Ager as an asshole, first, though. If Draco had to be remembered as a stalker, he could at least be a mature one. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard Hermione’s voice:

“Malfoy, where are you? What the hell…”

He figured she had just turned around and found the scrapbook.

Draco stuck an arm out and summoned his wand really, really hard. His wandless magic was passable at best, but better when he was in close range and when he wasn’t thinking so bloody hard about it.

The stick of wood shot into his grip and Draco rushed back upstairs.

Hermione was looking at the Harry Potter wall, a hand reaching out to touch the list. “There you are,” she said.

Draco felt blood rushing to his ears. “It’s not what you think.” He bit his tongue.

She looked at him, eyebrow raised. “And what, exactly, am I thinking?”

He remained silent, teeth on his tongue to prevent him from spilling any sort of information. He was starting to sweat. 

“Seduction, huh?”

He looked at the messy scrawl of the list. “It wasn’t first on my list. And I didn’t even write it the first time,”

“Who did?”

“Coffee?” He asked. The sweat was going to start pooling soon. If Hermione kept this up, he would have to invest in some stain-resistant potion recipes, or at least muggle washing and drying machines. For some reason, muggle clothing wasn’t too keen on wizarding cleaning charms.

She narrowed her eyes and nodded, letting the hand she had placed on the wall drop. “Sure.”

Draco summoned the Kona brew Luna had asked for and began preparing it again. Hermione wandered backwards and took a seat in his folding chair. 

“Damn Slytherins,” He thought he heard her mutter. She was still looking up at the scrapbook.

He agreed; the list was impressive, if a bit unorthodox. He picked up a mug for Hermione and a mug for him. Sitting across from her, he slid the first mug across the table.

“So you seduced Harry. How?”

“Mirroring. It’s a quite simple and compelling tactic. I was polite, yet succinct. Brief and compelling,”

She took a sip of her coffee, eyes darting around his flat. “Okay. Is this really your flat?”

He frowned. “Unfortunately. Your fiance’s department hasn’t exactly been swift in their furniture delivery service,”

“And the smell?”

“I suppose I’ve become nose blind. Do you have any tips?” He asked, grabbing at the switch in conversation matter. 

“Get a new carpet, maybe. And invest in some muggle air fresheners. They do wonders,”

He nodded, took a sip of his coffee. They sat in silence. It wasn’t the kind of silence he shared with Luna earlier: the comfortable, peaceful kind of silence you experience after the first snow. This silence was sharp and dangerous, crossing an unfamiliar mountain without a guide. Without warning, an avalanche of questions could fall on you. Draco didn’t like it.

But he had to withstand it. If he didn’t, that was weakness. And even though he and Hermione were technically allies, she was more of a mercenary. 

“How did you seduce Harry, again?” she asked sweetly.

He sighed. What was the use? She’d figure it out sooner or later anyway, especially because of the notebook of advice Blaise had written for him that was taped to the bottom left corner of the wall.

“I let him think he was eavesdropping on me. It wasn’t really a proper seduction, just a bit of manipulation. He thought I didn’t know he was listening, I sounded very desperate for his help. It was a calculated effort but in all honesty,” he spread his hands wide on the table, palms up. “I didn’t think it would work. What, exactly, has Potter done?”

Her eyes lit up. Apparently, this was the question she had been waiting to answer. She scooted forward in her chair like an eager student. “A letter arrived to the Ministry this morning, addressed to ‘The Wizengamot.’ It was, allegedly, from Harry Potter and contains fingerprints that match his profile. Inked fingerprints. It told the Wizengamot to repeal the Reinspection Decision because, and I quote ‘it’s a wanker decision only wankers make. Stop being money-hungry wankers,’”

Draco felt his eyes getting wider and wider the more Hermione continued. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely. The Wizengamot was, obviously, appalled at such a crass and direct approach,” She was, obviously, delighted at such a crass and direct approach, if the way her voice accelerated was any way to judge.

“I would be, too,” he said, wondering what exactly Potter had read into his idle suggestions in the shower.

“And the best part? All responses were instructed to be sent through Luna Lovegood,” Her fingers twiddled the sides of the coffee mug in joy. 

Draco felt his jaw drop. “She didn’t,” he breathed. “The genius,”

She nodded, afro bobbing slightly. “It’s brilliant. The–”

Someone knocked on the door of the shop. Draco jumped, then apologized when Hermione jumped too. She looked at him quizzically.  

“It’s probably one of the neighbors. If it’s an older woman with dandelion hair or a really short older woman, they’re muggle. If she looks about our age with straight brown hair and freckles, she’s magic. If it’s a dog or a sheep, I think they’re okay with magic but I’m not sure,” He exited the flat. “The last part was a joke, by the way. The dog is magic, the sheep are muggle,” He closed the door, leaving Hermione to further investigate the Harry Potter Wall. Lesser of two evils, he supposed.

Whoever the person was wasn’t looking through the front window, so they probably knew Draco was home. Which meant they knew Draco, which meant there were only the three possibilities he had told Hermione. Or maybe it was Luna again, come to impart on him more wisdom.

He opened the door. If he had been someone else, he might have smiled. See, the thing was, the man standing in front of him couldn’t possibly be who he thought he was. Of all days, today had to be the day Draco had no time for himself and was forced to welcome three random people into his home. Well, he couldn’t say Luna had been random, or that he was forced to welcome her. He refused to put a smile on his face.

“Potter,” He said.

Potter nodded. So it really was him, after all. Draco narrowed his eyes. Luna had said he would be around tomorrow. Maybe it was someone in polyjuice, or maybe Potter was being forced into this.

“You said you’d be around?” He asked hopefully. Draco was spared a smile. The damned dog at his feet wagged its tail. It made a thumping noise against the ground.

“I am,” Draco said. That much should be obvious, even to a dimwit like Potter. Now that Potter had given him what was needed, there was no obligation to be nice to him. Merlin, what if the bullshit seduction had worked? Draco didn’t need  _ that _ , too. No matter how much Potter’s hair could really benefit from Draco’s fingers running through it, he didn’t want to. 

“I was wondering, er–” He pulled something out of a paper sack. It was a gourd. A pale orangey, vaguely phallic gourd. “If you’d like a butternut squash?”

A  _ what? _ Draco’s mind reeled. He looked at the squash. The stumpy little stem of the squash stared back. It wasn’t a bad looking specimen, all things considered.

He nodded, allowing Potter to awkwardly hand him the squash. How had Potter managed to look so casual holding it? He didn’t know whether to hold it under his arm like a parcel or cradle it like a baby. He allowed it to rest in his hands like a prize fish.

Potter looked at the squash. He looked at the paper sack in his hand. He looked at his hands. He looked into the shop. There was a lot of looking going on.

Draco looked at Potter and the dog. Potter hadn’t shaved in a few days; the stubble was beginning to grow. In school, Draco had always thought Potter would have looked the best in facial hair. The dark hair, the shadow would clearly set off the famous green eyes. Eyes which were still darting around, taking in all of Draco. Draco continued to contemplate. A full beard, maybe, nicely groomed. None of that bushy overgrown nonsense the half-giant had going on. Hagrid, he reminded himself. Call people by their real names.

The dog’s green collar was nearly obscured by its thick fur from this angle. It looked up at him, one ear flipped inside out and the other flopped down. It was wearing a pathetically endearing grin, tongue spilling out and all that. The teeth were massive, though.

“I was wondering–” Potter started again. He looked inside again. Draco followed his gaze to see what he might be staring at but there was nothing out of the usual. “–if you might want to have a word? I need some clarification on something,”

Wow, what a big word for little Potter. He’d probably been rehearsing all morning, poor thing. “Believe me, Potter, I have more questions for you,”

He held up the squash and Draco could have sworn Potter’s face reddened. 

“But I think you’d better some back tomorrow,” he continued. “Because Hermione is upstairs right now, and I’ve heard you’re not much in the mood for talking to her.”

With that, he gave a curt nod and closed the door in Potter’s face. Potter didn’t knock again, so Draco counted it as a success. He waited until he heard Potter sigh, mumble a curse and stomp away.

Draco let out a breath. He continued back up to his flat, where thankfully Hermione was still waiting. 

“What’s with the squash?” She asked. She was still sitting at the folding table, but her mug was empty.

“Gift. From a neighbor,” he said. She looked sceptical. “Housewarming,”

She was clearly not convinced but didn’t question any further, which was as good as. Draco took a seat. Her eyes darted to the Harry Potter Wall, but she trained them back on Draco. “I’ve been thinking of what the Wizengamot might do with Harry’s note,”

xXx

Git. Poncy git. Poncy  _ fucking _ git.

Harry’d given him one of his best squashes and for what? A curt nod, an insult, and a dissection. That’s probably what Malfoy’d been doing with his eyes: dissecting him. Like a specimen. A potion ingredient or a particularly nasty bug.

Well, Malfoy was the nasty bug, alright. Harry had showed up, ready to offer an olive branch, and never mind that Luna had told him to come tomorrow. Luna couldn’t know everything. 

He huffed down the street, Stella trailing behind him. The road was dusty, as per usual. A little damp in places. Harry didn’t mind, his trainers were already worn-in. Malfoy probably did. He probably wore fucking Italian leather everywhere. He tried to remember if Malfoy had been wearing shoes earlier. He couldn’t remember. Damn.

A rock skipped over the cobbles. Harry kicked it. It settled, and he kicked it again. It tapped the hoof of a sheep, which sent it scampering over to its friend (also a sheep). Stella galloped up to them and licked the larger of the two. It graciously allowed her to do so. So dignified.

Harry gave it a little half-smile. Those were the sheep who had eaten the daisies. Malfoy had probably taught them that, he remembered with a scowl. What was he thinking, doing a service to Harry one day and turning him away the next?

He went around the back of his house, through the garden and up to the back door. The back door was his favorite door, he had decided. It was the most comfortable-looking. He whistled for Stella, who loped inside after him.

The oregano was looking droopy. He put it in the center of the kitchen windowsill and moved the basil to the shadier spot. Those two and the thyme had to be moved around constantly or none of them would be happy. They were potted plants and spread a bit of wet dirt on the once-white sill as he moved them, but honestly, it was fine. They were his little plants, the ones that wouldn’t win him any awards but gave him peace of mind. If the three weren’t fussing in some way, something was wrong. Harry liked the pattern.

Fussy herbs settled, Harry collapsed back into the old Gryffindor chair. Malfoy’s book was still on the arm. Harry grabbed it, read the list elegantly penned into the back one more time. 

 

  * _Luna Lovegood_


  * Minerva McGonagall


  * Dean Thomas


  * Ollivander


  * Dumbledore


  * Hagrid


  * Neville Longbottom


  * Ronald Weasley


  * Hermione Granger


  * Harry Potter



 

Harry didn’t know what it meant, exactly, but it clearly had been a well-meditated list, if the different colored inks were any indication. The first four had been all in blue, then 5-7 had been added in black. 8-9 were red, and Harry was in pencil. Luna, Professor McGonagall, Dean, and Ollivander had been crossed out in the same ink Malfoy had used for 5-7. 

After Malfoy had finished with one section, he crossed them out and added on. Malfoy was clearly friends with Luna and had strung up some sort of acquaintanceship with Hermione.

He had even called her Hermione. God, the audacity. Couldn’t the pointy git ever be consistent?

Harry shook his head, clearing himself of that train of thought. “What do you think, Stella?” he asked.

She cocked her head at him.

“Me neither, girl. Me neither,” he said. 

Time passed. Harry gardened. He made himself some dinner, refusing the use squash. Today was not a squash day. Tomorrow would not be a squash day. Saturday would not be a squash day. Sunday would not be a squash day. Maybe Monday?

Monday would be a good squash day.

But now? Today? Thursday was a noodle day.

Harry ate his noodles as the sun set and he felt a little bit better than before. He put his legs up on the chair across the table from him. He tossed a noodle into the air. Stella caught it before it hit the ground. She was an athlete.

And so he puttered around, glanced at the book. He’d read it all by now, of course, known all about Orsino and Viola and Draco’s opinions on that. Of course, by now Harry had his own. He discussed them on the radio that night:

_ I read a book the other day. Surprising, isn’t it. Old men like me still have enough eyepower to read. How’d you know I have glasses? Anyway. _

_ It was about people being in love and not really knowing the person they’re in love with. Or maybe they did, in a certain way. You see, the Countess loved the messenger-girl, but he thought she was a boy. And the messenger-girl loved the Duke, but the Duke thought she was a boy. I mean, what was she asking for? She was dressed up as a boy. I dunno. _

_ I was reading it and I started thinking about myself, you know-get down, Stella, I already fed you-and talking to my old friends. See, Perdita made friends with Posh Spice behind my back and I feel a little betrayed, you know? I mean, I try to talk to her but she doesn’t talk normal with me, but somehow she can talk to the man who was a right twat to her in school? I dunno. We were best friends. Were. _

_ You see, I think I’m just looking for different things in my old friends than they’re looking for in me. I just want normal people who remember me, and they just want the old me.  _

_ Whatever. _

_ At least I have Stella. _

_ She’s eating all the green beans again. _

Harry sighed. He talked about green beans a little more, waiting for the fifteen minute timer to go off. He’d promised his mind healer he’d talk about his feelings for at least fifteen minutes a day. And the thing is, he just had a lot of feelings about green beans.

Okay, that wasn’t all true.

But it was true enough. And if he didn’t talk about normal stuff he’d get all wrapped up in metaphors and mysteries and Malfoy. It would be sixth year all over again, and Harry wasn’t exactly emotionally prepared for that. He didn’t much feel like finding out what the twenty-one year-old version of sectumsempra was. 

_ Thanks for listening, Angie. Love you. _ He said, ending the broadcast.

So he’d see Malfoy tomorrow about a squash and a legislative decision. So what? There was absolutely nothing the git could do to run him off. Harry would stick to him like glue. No matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter alternatively titled: draco plays host to every character he wouldn't expect to host.  
> i'm having a grand ol time writing this (still) and reading your comments motivates me so much y'all don't even know.  
> I'm on fall break rn so expect the next chapter by next sunday!


	8. Robusta

It was the snake. Always the fucking snake. It was coming; Draco could hear it in the walls. He ran to the next room but the snake was following him. The walls blackened as it slithered closer and closer. Draco tried to run but his feet didn’t move right.

The rot on the walls spread to the floor Draco was standing on. It splintered under his feet and he tried to back up but it wasn’t fast enough. And then he was falling, falling through the dark floors of the Manor. 

The snake saved him. It circled him and pulled him onto a landing he hadn’t realized existed. He tried to thank it, but it turned its rotted jaws on him. Its tail, Draco realized, had been twisting and turning around him this whole time. He gasped. There wasn’t enough air. He tried to call out for help, but the people just shook their heads. They whistled for the snake to keep going. Draco turned and it was right there. The eyes glowed yellow and orange in the dark. They reflected off its scales and then its mouth was open, open much wider than Draco had thought it could.

He couldn’t breathe, he watched the teeth enter the flesh of his hands. The snake was swallowing him whole. His whole body was gone, gone into the gullet of the snake. It looked him in the eyes with its teeth, the dull ivory with little red strings (Draco recognizes his intestines) hanging off it. They lunged into his eyes and Draco woke, panting.

He had a headache, he noted. The bedsheets were wrapped around him like a straitjacket. Draco reached down to detangle them and realized they were soaked with sweat.

The alarm clock glowed red through the darkness: 4:30.

Well, good time as any to start the day. Campbell and Elise wouldn’t be up yet, but they’d manage. And Draco would be quiet.

It wasn’t the worst dream he’d had, but it sure was sticky. A couple months ago he had stopped keeping the dream journal because he got sick of writing the same things over and over. It was either the vengeant muggles, torturing the students, or the snake.

His heart was still beating too rapidly. He pressed a hand to his chest, rubbing the spot over his heart. Draco smelled the sheets of the bed, cast a quick cleaning charm. No need to bother Campbell and Elise with doing laundry all the time.

He no longer felt guilty about using their shower. And so, he turned it on. The streams of water washed over the floor. _ Muffliato _ , he muttered. Time for quiet. 

The steam filled his lungs. Merlin, breathing was nice. The jets of water pounded against his back. He turned the water hotter. It started to burn but at least it was real. Draco washed his hair, his body. He lifted his face to the spout and let the water wash over him. Closing his eyes, he let the droplets run off his eyelashes. He stood there in a cocoon of warmth and comfort for some time. 

Draco was falling back asleep. His head nodded down to his chest and the snake was there again.

He shot back up, slipping on the tile floor. Merlin-fuck. He muttered curses as he stepped out of the shower.

He wiped the condensation off the mirror. It showed his back, angry red from almost-scalding water. He frowned. His reflection frowned back.

He sighed. Potter.

Potter was coming by today, wasn’t he? Merlin only knows what that man wanted to talk about.

Draco looked in the mirror, looked at his face. His hair was stuck to his forehead, laying over his eyebrows and some strands reached below his eyes. He ran a hand through them, throwing his hair into some state of disorder. He bared his teeth. They were alright, he guessed. No particles clinging to them. He was reminded of the snake and its intestines.

No intestines stuck in these fangs, Draco thought idly.

A knock on the door caused him to briefly knock his head into the mirror.

He lifted the muffliato, cast a quick drying charm and threw on his clothes.

The door opened.

“Lad? What’re you doing up?” Campbell asked.

Draco rested his hand on the countertop. “Woke up. Couldn’t go back to sleep,”

She nodded. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you a cuppa.” Her tone gave no room for negotiation, but luckily Draco was ready to comply.

Campbell whisked him to the kitchen and took a seat on the countertop. He followed her lead, sitting diagonal to her. She passed him a mug of something herbal. It was already brewed. She’d been expecting him.

He smelled the tea. It was something fruity-maybe raspberry? He took a sip. Maybe pomegranate, he revised.

“Did I ever tell you about how Elise and I found each other?”

He shook his head.

She laughed, the sound somehow bouncing around the kitchen like a cannon blast. “It’s a good one. You’d wonder how a good Scot like me fell in love with an Irish girl like her. At least she wasn’t English, you know?

“That’s a joke, o’course. Nobody really believes that rubbish, even in the stone ages when I was growing up. Except the part about the English. No hard feelings, lad, but you lot are the worst,”

Draco quirked up a smile at this. 

Seeing him and nodding, she continued:

“I was going to Dublin for University, yeah? Green little lass from the farm, going to be a big educated sort of person. Now, it wasn’t exactly unheard of for ladies like me to go to University, but I was the first in my town and family to go. I know what you’re thinking, lad. Yes, I am really that old. And I was supposed to be getting a medicine degree. But then, I’m in my first biology class and I’m sure I’m the only female. Then, ten minutes late comes this flower-power bird with hair down to her ass and Joseph’s rainbow coat,”

Draco was sure this was a reference to something he should know. Problem is, he didn’t. So he just sat and nodded, gave a little smirk and drank the fruity tea.

“And she comes down and flops right next to me and I’m like oh, God, what does she want from me? And I make it a point to give her neither a smile nor the time of day the whole semester. But her? She continues to come in every day, trivially late with home-spun clothes and smelling like a wildflower field in June. Come end of the semester, she’s got the best grade in the class,”

The sun was beginning to rise. Its golden rays started to light up the light blue curtains hanging on the eastern window.

“And I’m struggling a bit. But I don’t do or say anything. I pass the class. I can’t forget about her, and just my luck a couple years later she shows up again. It’s a chemistry class, because of course it is. This time, I bother to ask her what her degree is going to be in and she says, clear and proud as anything, art and design. And she’s taking advanced chemistry as an elective. She sits by me again, and this time I really start failing and I have to ask her for help. 

She adjusted herself on the countertop, folding her feet under her knees. Took a sip of her tea, ran her tongue over her lips.

“She starts tutoring me outside of class, and, well, one thing leads to another and we’ve decided to get married after we finish our degrees. Hers is done at this point, but I’ve got one more year. She’s got a flat and we live there together, right? But after we graduate I go back to my town and be the doctor. She doesn’t come with me.”

Campbell sighed, like her younger self had made the worst decision in the world. “I left her in Dublin. And we sent letters but..”

“It wasn’t the same.” Elise was standing in the entryway. She walked over to where Campbell was standing. By this time, the tea had long grown cold. But Elise took a sip out of Campbell’s mug anyway. “You addressed your letters to ‘Ellis.’”

“My mother was so curious about who he was, and I, I just didn’t have the heart to tell her that her favorite daughter was a dyke,” Campbell said. Elise patted her hand.

“But my mother did tell me if he made me happy, I should be with him. I asked her how to know if he was the one I should marry, and she said. ‘Aina,”

At this point Campbell put on a matronly caricature and the thickest Scottish accent Draco’s ever heard.

“Aina, if he’s smarter and braver and kinder than you, he might not be the one. But when he’s convinced you’re smarter and braver and kinder and you just can’t see how someone so smart and braver and kind could say that about you, then you know.”

Elise inclined her head toward Draco, hair catching the sun like a renaissance painting. “And then she knew. And then I knew,”

“That we could never be together,” Campbell said, dead serious.

Then they collapsed into schoolgirl giggles. “No, Aina dear, then I moved to a country I’d never been to before, you moved down south and we bought a little bookshop,”

“Oh yes, I forget. Thanks for reminding me,”

Draco smiled, as genuine as he could make it. “And the lesson?”

Campbell looked startled. “No lesson, laddie. Just didn’t want you to be rattling around here by yourself in the wee hours of the morning,”

“And she only knows one story, so…” Elise added.

Campbell pretended to be offended. “It’s a good one, alright?”

“I know.”

They smiled at each other for a few seconds, the kind of smile you send when the recipient knows you better than anyone else in the world and you just want to say hey, you. I love you. Then they looked at Draco, the remnants of the smile still on their faces. 

Elise spoke up, first. “I hear today’s going to be an important day for you,”

Draco started. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Around. Figured today would have to be pretty important for you to get dressed like that.” She inclined her head at the outfit he was wearing.

He looked down. Okay, so maybe button-up (starched collar) and dress pants weren’t exactly casual, but he wanted Potter to know he meant business.

“I’d maybe tone it down to jeans,” Campbell added. “Just a spot of advice. And I have a book for you,”

Draco obediently went back to his room and changed his pants, then descended to the bookshop.

On his way, Elise accosted him with a bagel. “Not without breakfast, you don’t,” she said, stuffing it in his mouth.

He nodded his thanks, although in all honesty it still made him a little sick to eat in the mornings.

Campbell waved him over. She handed him a slim battered-looking book with a tree on the cover. 

“ _ A Separate Peace _ ” He read out loud. “Is it good?”

Campbell made a face. “Not my favorite, honestly. But I have a feeling you’d know how to end it much better than John Knowles did.”

Draco nodded. 

“Don’t read it all at once!” she advised as he waved goodbye.

He looked for the summary, but the book was missing a dust jacket. It appeared there was no summary in the first few pages either, meaning Draco would just have to jump in. Eventually. There wasn’t any time for that today. It was eight o’clock in the morning and Potter would show up around two.

No time to waste.

He had long decided to receive Potter in his flat, he remembered as he tread across the still-in-process coffee shop. So there was still a bit of cleaning to be done.

First he got rid of the Harry Potter Wall. Well, not completely. He moved it to the second bedroom, which he planned to use as a sort of office or library. Especially once his furniture finally arrived. He’d have to complain about that soon.

Mr Agee deserved some more correspondence, Draco thought. He penned a quick but rambling letter about morality and how if even Harry Potter himself asked Mr Ager to stop publishing unauthorized photos, Mr Ager wouldn’t. Draco summoned a public owl and sent the letter off.

There was still a lingering scent of piss throughout the entire flat. But a package was waiting for him at the back window. He opened it: Febreze Plug (Fresh-Twist!). Fresh Laundry scented. Just as Hermione had recommended. He had ordered twenty and plugged them into every outlet he could see. This flat had better reek of fresh laundry by two o’clock. It had better smell so pleasant Potter would declare that Draco was actually an alright fellow and didn’t deserve to be bothered anymore. Potter would take one whiff of fresh laundry and leave because his house would never smell fresher. Draco wanted Potter to feel so inadequate about the smell of his own house it physically hurt him. Thanks, Hermione.

He took a lunch break. The squash Potter had brought him yesterday stared at him from the kitchen counter. He glared back.

Draco made a sandwich and refused to look at the squash. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away, but it felt wrong to cook it. Also, important detail, Draco hadn’t the faintest idea of how to cool it. Yet another thing Potter had on him.

He might as well make a list.

Potter had furniture, knew how to cook a squash, had a dog, had a house, had influence.

And Draco had a mother. And was also much more attractive. 

Draco was clearly in the lead.

He scanned the flat for other little items to clean. He couldn’t do much about the furniture or the size of the place, unfortunately. The old Prophet with Draco and Weasley was hanging around. Draco vanished it. And the radio still sat on the floor near the couch. He took it and threw it in the office, making sure to semi-permanently lock the door. He used the sort of charm that took approximately 8 hours to wear off. Potter should be gone by then.

A knock sounded from downstairs. Funny, Draco would have thought the oh-so-entitled Savior he would just apparate in.

Potter had been remarkably silent as Draco led him to the flat, and even more so (if possible) when he took a seat in one of the folding chairs. 

It was unofficially Draco’s chair, but he decided not to mention it. Such actions were petulant and below him. 

He thought about making coffee, but honestly? Potter hadn’t earned it yet. Maybe, if he behaved himself, Draco would brew some simple robusta. 

But that was unlikely, so he just took the other chair and sat across from Potter. “What do you want?”

Potter rubbed his forehead. “Malfoy, why did you ask me here if you’re just going to be a prat?” He looked… tired. 

Draco hadn’t thought he was being a prat, but some people needed things to be spelled out slowly. “I had assumed you would need more convincing about saving the Manor, so I offered my brilliant services of explanation to you.”

Potter seemed to consider this. He bit the inside of his cheek. The man still hadn’t shaved and the five o’clock shadow was turning to more of a poor excuse for a beard. 

Maybe Potter was trying to grow a beard. It would certainly do his face a service; the more of it that could be covered up, the better. But Potter wouldn’t do well with a big, full beard. Preferably something close-shaven, to accentuate that jawline. Merlin, how could three years give someone a jawline like that? Any jawline Potter had in school had been due to malnourishment. And yet, he had still been unfairly attractive.

Draco’s eyes focused on the squash, just visible over Potter’s left ear.

Scratch that. Potter had been the least attractive person to walk the grounds at Hogwarts, and that included Filch.

“I heard the M–er–I mean, Campbell and Elise have helped you a bit?” Potter said, breaking the silence.

Draco nodded. “They rather forcibly adopted me,”

To his surprise, Potter barked out a bit of a laugh. “They do that. Over the past year they’ve forced a novel or dozen into me, as well. Won’t be surprised if they start force-feeding you the classics as well,”

Draco made a faint sound of agreement. Could Potter be trying to be civil? 

“They’re sweet, but I worry sometimes about their safety. It would be so easy for someone to take advantage of their kindness, wouldn’t it?”

Ah, there it is. 

No worries. Draco was well-used to this. Believe it or not, he’d grown up with this sort of verbal sparring. “Yes, it would just break their hearts if someone they’d grown to care about just up and disappeared,”

Potter had the nerve to look a little hurt. Shame, must be out of practice. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Another knock sounded from downstairs. Potter started. Draco furrowed his brow; no one was supposed to be stopping by.

And lately, there had been an awful lot of people stopping by.

“Hold on one moment,” Draco said. “I’ll go see who it is. If my whole flat spontaneously combusts, you’re going to be the one paying for it.” He rose and started descending the staircase.

“If it did, it might be an improvement!” Potter’s voice followed him down. He must have used a sonorus charm.

Funny, Draco would’ve thought he was the sort to just yell.

He opened the door. A bright flash of light accosted him, and he slammed the door in the person’s face.

“Mr Malfoy, Mr Malfoy!” Someone was shouting.

Draco steadied himself against the wall. If the photographers were here, he couldn’t let them leave. And  _ how in the bloody hell had they known where to find him _ .

He took a deep breath, opened the door to see a stout older fellow with a notebook and a rather large camera. Draco forced himself to smile. “Sir, I’d be delighted to welcome you into my home. Please step inside,”

The man seemed shocked at such an easy entry. Reporter types, for all the pomp about sniffing out the truth, were really quite gullible. He wandered around for a few moments. 

“You live here?”

“Of course,” Draco said, closing the door to the outside. He also took care to close the curtains to the display windows. “ _ Incarcerous _ ,” he muttered, tethering the man to the floor. 

Draco snatched the man’s wand and ran upstairs. “Potter! Potter,”

Potter jumped back from whatever he was investigating in the kitchen. Draco rolled his eyes. “I have a case that requires your Auror expertise,”

“Trainee,” Potter corrected, “And it was only for a week.” 

But he came downstairs anyway.

“Malfoy. I’ve decided that if you didn’t appreciate my squash, I’ll have you know that it was one of my best and if you don’t know how to cook it, that’s just due to your pureblood–why is  _ he _ here?” He said, pointing to the reporter currently gasping like a goldfish.

“You’ve a better chance of guessing that than I,” Draco said to Potter. He turned to the man. “And stop exaggerating. I tethered your arms and legs, not your windpipe,”

The man shut his mouth. Potter looked down at him, channelling all of his Savior of the Wizarding World bravado. “I thought I’d told you to bugger off after that snap of me at the supermarket, Orion,”

The man seemed to shrink into himself. 

_ Orion _ . The name seemed familiar. He thought through Orions. Orion Black, Orion Johnson, Orion… N. Orion N Ager. So this was the little bugger who’d caused the ruckus in the Prophet, letting old Lucius know about Draco’s whereabouts. This was the little bugger had been oh so politely responding to Draco’s owls. This was the little pervert. He was older than Draco had expected.

Potter had crouched down next Mr Ager’s ear. “What do you want to do with him, Malfoy?” He asked, looking up.

Draco ran a hand through his hair, making parts of it stand on end. “Potter, how good are you with memory charms?”

“Half-decent enough, I’d say.” Potter had suddenly drawn himself up to a height that reached just below Draco’s ear (all the way to the top, if Draco counted the hair).

“Perfect,” Draco said, assuming the posture he had used as a fifth year when apprehending troublemakers for Umbridge. What an unpleasant woman. “I suggest we give Mr Orion N Ager a real story to print.”

Potter, thick as he was, seemed to catch Draco’s wavelength. “You know what? I couldn’t agree more.” 

He extended his wand and a silvery blue mist encircled the man tied to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vibing!!! thriving!!! living!!! i'm afraid the next update may take several weeks,,, there's finals season, i've got presentations and projects galore. Also i'm in a show so i'm honestly doubtful i'll have much time i can allocate to writing. and I might have an interview??? idk yall december is a rollercoaster. But this child of mine will get updated!! eventually!! probably before january!!!


	9. A Light Arabica

As the blue light encircled Mr Ager’s head, his eyes grew unfocused and glassy. 

“You poked around Abford for several hours, but even after asking the neighbors, you found no sign of Draco Malfoy,” Potter said firmly.

“I found no sign of Draco Malfoy,” Mr Ager repeated.

“But, you did meet a me, a stranger who looked nothing like Harry Potter and offered to show you where he really was–”

Draco tried to shoot Potter a glare of pure potential murder, but the blasted man was making direct eye contact with Mr Ager. Honestly, some people think performing a spell correctly is more valuable than looking at Draco. How rude.

“–still in London. Holed up in an expensive wizarding neighborhood accessed through the basement egress window well of number 34 Tite Street, Chelsea. He was kind enough to agree to apparate you there.” Potter finished. He broke eye contact to give Draco the sort of look that tells the other person to get out of here or there’s going to be trouble for you.

So Draco did.

From behind the door of his flat he heard the faint distinctive pop of apparition, then he walked back out into the store. Sure enough, Potter was gone. But come to think of it, London was an awfully long jump, especially side-along. Did he mean to do it in two? No, Draco realized. Potter didn’t mean to do it in two because Potter was the most powerful wizard of our time, by all reports (especially _Witch Weekly_ ). Why would the Boy Who Lived be confined by things like stamina? 

Draco didn’t want to just wait like a damsel until Potter came back, but he didn’t know what else to do. So, damsel he would be. 

He waited.

And waited.

He made himself a cup of coffee (just a light roast of arabica, something simple).

And waited some more.

He checked the time. How bloody long would it take for Potter to apparate some creeper to London and back? He was the most powerful wizard in the fucking world. Draco took an annoyed sip, then let it swish around his mouth.

Potter might be trying to get back here. He might have gotten caught up in some sort of neo-Death Eater scheme. Yaxley. Was Yaxley still around? Draco hadn’t been paying much attention around the time of the trials. Wait. Yaxley was dead. Wasn’t he? 

A cold strike of fear ran through his heart. Lucius. Where was Lucius? Draco hadn’t been keeping tabs, recently. It had been three weeks since he had last stopped in the Manor, and one more since he had talked to his, as much as he hated to say it, father. He could have gone into one of his fits again, thinking it was during the war. Mother couldn’t always calm him down, convince him to go to sleep. And suddenly Draco knew it. Lucius had gotten out. He had contacted some old Death Eater pal and paid him off somehow. They were after Potter and that’s why he was late. Merlin, Potter would never forgive him. He’d have to leave again, or start over again somewhere else.

Just as he had been trying to become someone new.

Just as he had been getting the hang of living on his own Potter was going to be killed on Draco’s card. They’d have to throw him in Azkaban now. 

They could never prove the muggles (it had been a whole mob of Death Eaters at the time), he didn’t kill Dumbledore, but Harry Potter? The Wizengamot would not be lenient if Harry Potter was killed. And worst of all, there would be no Harry Potter to testify for him.

Because Draco was the one responsible for his death!

He was breathing hard now. He could feel his eyes stretched wide, staring at nothing.

He shook his head. No, now was not the time. Potter was probably just signing autographs or had visited a Tesco to buy some grapefruit or something. Nothing to be worried about. But still, Draco’s heart beat in his ears. He took a sip of his coffee.

The coffee was getting cold.

Sun was setting.

Merlin-curse-it, Potter. Where are you?

He went back into the kitchen and made another cup of coffee. Draco’s hands were shaking. Really, all this just because of a made-up scenario? Potter was probably fine. Lucius had absolutely nothing to do with it. Still, he couldn’t shake this feeling…

A popping noise from the store filled him with both fear and relief. 

He rushed downstairs, both cups of coffee in hand.

“Potter! Want a cuppa?” He asked, door wide open, ecklectric light from the flat pouring into the store. Draco nearly smiled.

It reflected on a pair of green eyes with huge dilated pupils sparking with anger. Not literally, of course, but Potter looked close to accidental-on-purpose arson.

The ghost of a smile on Draco’s face faded at once, schooled into careful blankness.

“How.” Potter grit out. “Did Mister Orion. N. Ager. Know where to find me?” His eyes bored into Draco and the man seemed to grow a good six inches.

“I have no idea, Potter,” Draco started, much too quickly. “But if you’d come upstairs I’ve made some coffee for you, and we can discuss how to prevent anyone from finding you ever again,”

“Finding me?” Potter repeated, and Draco knew he had said something wrong. “Nobody finds me accidentally, Malfoy. I hid myself. There are no connections to me here. No one–”

And Draco’s ears popped at this.

“–should have been able to happen to stumble upon my town. This is my town, Malfoy, and I don’t need you polluting it!”

Potter started stamping up the stairs towards the flat, and Draco found himself involuntarily backing up in response. The light inside the flat illuminated Potter’s features, and he noticed the dirt or dust smeared across his face and clothes. His glasses were smudged.

“You know why I came here, Malfoy?”

Draco shook his head slightly. Potter smelled like sweat.

“I came here to stop flithy Death Eater cocksuckers like you from poking their heads into places they don’t fucking belong. And what happened? You show up, chief of the filthy Death Eater cocksuckers–don’t act like you’re offended, Malfoy, anyone with half a brain knows you’re scum–and poke your pointy ferret face into my world,”

Potter was entirely too close to Malfoy, now, and not in a good way. Malfoy was backed up against the countertop in the kitchen, the gourd from yesterday right behind his hand. Potter was shouting at him, only inches from his face, wand drawn and pointed at Draco’s chin. Draco felt tears in his eyes and please, not now. He willed them back into the wells they came from.

“So get out. Okay? You’re not wanted.”

Draco closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Don’t let Potter see how you’re shaking the coffee mugs, don’t let him see you’ve spilled some over the side. “Do you want a coffee, Potter?”

He blinked. “A what?”

“A coffee,” Draco repeated, insult on the tip of his tongue but he didn’t say it. Now, he sensed, was not a good moment. “I made one for you.”

Potter accepted the mug, if somewhat skeptically. He sat down at the card table, in Draco’s chair just like before. He set his wand in plain sight. 

Draco tried not to eye it, he really did. But he took the moment and snatched the wand. Potter’s eyes widened with something like surprise. Maybe it was disappointment.

Draco took the chair opposite Potter. “I’m going to hold your wand and you are going to explain to me, in precise detail, exactly _what the fuck just happened_.”

Potter opened his mouth, but Draco started first. “And I’m not a fucking Death Eater, okay? Don’t you think I wanted to get away, too?”

Potter seemed to consider this, then opened his mouth to speak:

 “I apparated… our friend… to London, alley hear where I told him I would go. But my problem,” He smiled without humor, “Was to give him an actual Wizarding neighborhood. So I pop in the alley, and he makes such a commotion. He says, ‘Oh, thank you, sir, for taking me here! I shall check around and report to you if I find Mr. Malfoy!’ And I tell him NO, that won’t be necessary, I’ll just look for it in the _Prophet_ and thank God, he agrees, but not without catching the attention of a young lady walking by,”

Draco felt his pulse calm, he reminded himself to unclench his hands. Potter had paused to take a sip of coffee, and Draco began noticing a little more about the man. His hands were ribboned with little white ropey scars, and a whole garden’s worth of dirt resided under his fingernails. As he talked, Potter pulled little bits of it out and rolled it between his fingers before Vanishing it.

“And she, of course, was a witch, and of course she had a camera. One of those new small ones. She snapped a picture and went to talk to me and nearly forced me to give her an interview. Then a few of her friends showed up and I was signing autographs and someone asked me about where I was living, and I said the Bahamas, and she said I looked rather pale for the Caribbean, why don’t I go get a drink with her,” At this, he looked down into the coffee cup, and Draco could have sworn a little more of it evaporated.

“And I said, no, because regardless of what some people think,” He made eye contact with Draco. “I’m not an idiot. But she grabs my arm and apparates me somewhere, and thank God I don’t get splinched. So we get wherever and I apparate to some park and I incarcerous her and then I come back here. So can I have my fucking wand back?” He asked, and Draco slid it across the table.

“Potter…” Draco started, but he didn’t know how to end it so it sounds right. “People shouldn’t treat you like that,”

And he just laughed. “Tell that to them, Malfoy. And it’s not like you’d do anything to stop them. Am I wrong?”

Draco didn’t say anything. Yes, maybe they had no right to mob Potter like that, but it was Potter’s fault. If he hadn’t run away and actually given a decent press release for once, maybe the ordinary person wouldn’t be so excited when the Savior showed up.

“I’m not, am I?” Potter asked, but it wasn’t a question. He stood up. “If you don’t have anything else to say, I guess I’ll be going.”

“Potter, wait,” Draco said. “You can… use my bathroom or whatever to clean up if you want. I’ll make supper or something,”

It was a pitiable offering, but Potter seemed to consider it. He ran a hair through dark, staticky curls, then rubbed his eyes. “Alright, whatever. But if you kidnap me I will turn you over to authorities.”

Draco didn’t know if it was a joke or not, so he didn’t laugh. He gave him a sort of awkward half-smile and pretended he hadn’t read a few chapters on adrenaline during the house arrest.

So he ignored the scientific studies he had read and relied on personal experience: after something stressful happens, you can’t go on and do anything important. Also, Draco didn’t quite know why, but he didn’t want Potter’s only impression of his home being that he tried to help out and got kidnapped by a random witch, then getting his wand stolen and stomping out.

Of course, letting him leave would ensure that Potter never set foot in here again, but Draco would imagine Luna would be quite upset with him.

He’s doing this for Luna.

But if only Luna had taught him how to cook.

xXx

What the hell?

He looked at his hands, gripping the sink. Blood pounded in his ears and he felt the telltale dizzying buzz of adrenaline. He looked in the mirror. Wild eyes looked back at him. God, no wonder Malfoy had looked scared. Anyone would be.

So what the hell had just happened?

Malfoy had looked happy, almost, no, it couldn’t be, but _excited_ when Harry had come back. 

_A coffee. I made one for you._

Then he had asked Harry for supper and Harry couldn’t well say no, could he? 

Malfoy calls him into his home, presumably, and offers Harry an afternoon completely wasted. Then the reporter shows up (if what that idiot does can be considered reporting) and he gets kidnapped? Harry had a right to be angry. He had a right to storm home and never seen Malfoy again.

When he was younger, he had one rule: if someone asks you to stay for a meal, you take it.

Malfoy’s bathroom was spartan.

God, Malfoy’s bathroom. _Malfoy’s._ Harry wished this, in all its strangeness, had been the strangest day of his life. It would certainly be convincing.

And now he was standing, looking at himself in Draco Malfoy’s bathroom mirror. The mirror in Draco Malfoy’s less-than-1500 square foot muggle flat, where Draco Malfoy lived and pretended to be a muggle. What the hell. If Harry from four years ago had heard this, he’d have laughed and called Harry-from-now a liar. Hell, if Harry from three months ago had heard this, he’d have laughed and called Harry-from-now a liar.

There wasn’t a toothbrush at the sink, Harry noticed. Did Malfoy not brush his teeth? He ran a finger along the countertop, and the finest layer of dust came with it. Did Malfoy not shit?

It had probably been trained out of him when he was young. Harry amused himself for several moments imagining Narcissa Malfoy telling a platinum-haired toddler that ‘pure-blooded gentlemen do not use the shitter, they instead banish it from their bowels before it has the chance to breach the surface.’

God, what a world it would be if wizards didn’t use toilets.

One last look in the mirror, then Harry undressed and took a shower. 

He noticed Malfoy didn’t have shampoo or the dozens of other hair products he inevitably used. Honestly, how else could one man make his hair look that, well, pretty?

Then Harry remembered that Malfoy was staying with Campbell and Elise, probably because he had no furniture. Best guess was that the program he was with had promised to deliver whatever handcrafted masterpieces Malfoy insisted upon, but hadn’t yet fulfilled their promise.

Oh, well. Ponce probably deserved it.

Funny, Harry being the one calling Malfoy a ponce.

But it was just an honest observation, really. If Malfoy didn’t want to be perceived as a ponce, then why would he look so poncey?

 _But he had made Harry a coffee_.

Anyways.

Harry’s hair was going to be awful when it dried. In the past year or so, he had learned about the magic of conditioner, and now his hair had turned from black mass of frizz to black mass of curls, which was a marked improvement.

He heard a suspicious metallic thump followed by Malfoy cursing.

Harry sighed, then turned off the water and finished up in the bathroom.

“Merlin-fucking… hell!” Malfoy was shouting at a few mismatched pots and pans. Then he looked up. “Oh, hello Potter,” he said sheepishly.

“Hello,” Harry said. “What are you trying to make?”

“Good question. I’m actually, um, just taking an inventory right now. Finding out what to fix, based on my large repertoire of cooking skills,” He said, turning back to his assortment of cookware.

Harry took it upon himself to look in Malfoy’s refrigerator. There were about three slices of cheese and some crusty-looking onions. He looked at the counter space Malfoy was using to see if there was any more, but all he saw was the squash.

“Malfoy, do you even eat anything?”

“What?” Malfoy looked up sharply from the pots and pans he was anally arranging so their handles all pointed in the same direction. “Of course I eat! I just haven’t gotten groceries in a few days,”

“Days?” Harry repeated, Malfoy’s faint blush telling him all he needed to know.

“Why are you looking at me so indignant-like? I just haven’t gotten around to it, okay,” Malfoy said, turning back to his arrangement.

Harry made a mental note to ask Campbell and Elise whether they had prepared anything for Malfoy in the past week. Or two, he amended, looking at the crusty onions once more. He moved onto the pantry next to it. There were three slices of bread. He opened the cabinet. It was empty. Next cabinet, also empty. Drawer, three spoons. No forks or knives. 

“Malfoy?”

“What do you want, Potter?” Malfoy was turned around now, sharp line wrinkling his forehead, sneer ready at his lips.

“Do you even know how to cook?”

This clearly hadn’t been the question Malfoy had been prepared to answer, and his face smoothed over into that look Harry was already hating, although he’d only seen if a few times. 

“Of course I do, Potter. I was excellent at potions and I grew up with plenty of food. It’s only natural I knew how to prepare it,”

Harry felt a bit of a grin pull at his lips. “You don’t, do you?”

“What, like you do? We’re twenty-one, Potter. It’s not like either of us graduated from culinary school.” Malfoy started to turn back around.

Harry grabbed the squash. Something had made Malfoy ask him to stay for supper, and hell if Harry was going to skip supper because of a posh twat’s mad impulse. He grabbed a bowl and started mashing the squash.

“What are you doing, Potter, commandeering my kitchen? You’re in my home, you know,”

“Yes, I am. And yes, I know. Do you mind if I summon some ingredients? Your excuse for a kitchen have very much to offer in terms of spices. Or anything, really.”

Malfoy said nothing, which Harry took as permission.

Soup would take what, twenty minutes at most? Harry would be able to sate Malfoy’s strange supper urge and his own hunger in no time. 

A soup for a coffee. Tit for tat.

xXx 

Of course Potter could cook. Draco was trying to do one nice thing for the man, and he had to call his bluff. Unbelievable. The audacity. 

Draco took a seat on the counter opposite from where Potter was preparing some sort of soup. He was holding the ingredients Potter had summoned, and every so often Potter would ask for one and Draco would provide it. It was incredibly domestic, and Draco wasn’t a fan.

“Sorry about all that, before,” Potter said into the bowl of soup.

“It’s not a big deal, really,” Draco said. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d been yelled at, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. “You didn’t hurt my poor little spoiled rich boy feelings,”

“Spoiled rich boy or not, I was just angry and I took it out on you,”

“You have to take it out somewhere, don’t you? Might as well take it out on someone who can take it,”

Potter turned around. “You really believe that?”

Draco nodded. “Why shouldn’t I? A lot of it is my responsibility, after all,”

“A lot of what? My feelings?”

“Yes. I mean, I can’t imagine I’m very good for your mental health, past or present,” Draco said. He hadn’t meant it to sound like an apology, but it did. Irony of ironies, Draco Malfoy apologizing to Harry Potter.

“I’m not sure what to say to that, Malfoy,” Potter said, turning back around to check the soup. “Soup’s done.”

They sat at the card table, Potter still claiming Draco’s chair. The soup was surprisingly good, but Draco supposed it shouldn’t have been a surprise. After all, the man _was_ the Savior of the Wizarding World. A simple soup is probably below him. 

Funny, that. 

Potter had just made Draco a soup, without poisoning it. Though he supposed it was only payback. Draco had made Potter a coffee. But before that, Potter had both gotten rid of a rather annoying wizard _and_ written a letter to the Wizengamot on his behalf. Draco had gotten rid of the daisies, though, so maybe Potter had really just been repaying the favor. 

How was Draco going to repay this one? Because to his count, Potter was at 3 and Draco only had 2.

He looked over to where Potter was sitting and nearly laughed.

Adrenaline crash must’ve just hit him.

All of Potter’s soup was gone, and his head was resting in his hand, eyes closed.

Horribly and strangely domestic, the lot of it. 

Draco cleared away Potter’s dishes, then grabbed _A Separate Peace_ from the spare room.

He sat down on the sofa and began to read. Potter would have to wake up eventually, wouldn't he? In the meantime, Draco could do something productive for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried to stop working on this until the end of the school year, i really did. But then a snow day happened...  
> oh well.  
> i got told i have big chaotic neutral energy the other day, and i legit cannot stop thinking about it, especially in conjunction with me writing this little story. like what? my hobbies include reading & writing drarry fanfic (recs?), making tiktoks, spray painting, performing in a shakespeare troupe, and being a 2 sport athlete. chaotic neutral.
> 
> anyway, enough of my existential crisis.  
> hope you all enjoyed this one! it went a little heavy on the angst and drama, but that's showbiz baby.


	10. Or Something

Harry opened his eyes to a flat filled with golden morning light and a fluorescent pink cloud fluttering rather close to his head.

“Good, you’re awake,” It said. “Thought I might find you like this,”

As he blinked away the sleep in his eyes, he recognized the cloud as Luna, dressed in a floaty pink tulle dress.

“What do you mean, like this?” he asked, stretching his neck. It cracked several times, and there was an awful crick in it. Guess that’s what comes from sleeping a full eight hours sitting up, head in hand.

“Asleep in Draco Malfoy’s flat while Mr. Malfoy himself sleeps blissfully nearby.”

He turned to where she indicated, and saw Malfoy soundly asleep on the sofa. He looked strangely peaceful, and yet remarkably tired. Though the deep line of concern and disdain had smoothed over, Harry could now see wrinkles and bags under Malfoy’s eyes. They were the kinds of wrinkles and bags that accumulate after years and years of haunted dreams and hunting sleep. They wouldn’t be erased for months. Malfoy was clenching a book in his hands, turned upside down like he had finished the last page and immediately passed out.

He looked over to Luna, who was looking at him, eyebrow quirked, expecting a response.

Harry wet his tongue. “Can’t imagine either of us intended to still be here.”

She gave him another curious look and reached into a handbag (pink tulle to match the dress).

“And stop looking at me like that!”

She shrugged and object from her handbag in hand, strode over to Malfoy.

“You aren’t going to wake him up, are you?”

But her hands were already moving, waving the object Harry could now see was a small glass orange bottle under Malfoy’s nose.

“He’ll think it’s all my fault and then we’ll get into it and I just woke up but I wouldn’t hesitate to- why are you here, anyway? And what’s in the bottle?”

“Smelling salt,” she said, not answering the first and more important question. Harry felt a stab of annoyance. She ran the bottle under his nose again, but Malfoy didn’t react. Luna frowned, swiped it under a third time. “Must be in REM,” she muttered. Then, raising her wand, she levitated a few salt crystals out of the bottle and shot them into his nose.

Malfoy jumped awake, one hand on his wand, other hand on his nose. Luna deflected the jinxes he threw. 

“Merlin-bloody-fuck,” Malfoy mumbled. His hands stumbled to hide his book somewhere deep beneath the sofa cushions. Harry wondered briefly what sort of book it was, if Malfoy had been so ashamed of it. Some sort of cheap, awful romance written for middle aged single witches, probably. Malfoy’s eyes opened and closed like each movement was a favor. “What was that for?”

“You were asleep.” Luna supplied helpfully.

“And why are you still home?” Malfoy directed at Harry, spitting the ‘you’ out like a curse.

Harry just shrugged. “Funnily enough, I’m not that coordinated of a sleepwalker.”

Malfoy narrowed his aristocratic eyes, but they brightened again as he fixed them on Luna. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Wizengamot’s having a discussion today. It’s open to registered parties, which, luckily,” she procured three ‘visitor’ badges with the day’s date and their respective names. “we are,”

“Of course!” Malfoy said. “I’d forgotten that was today. Thank you, Luna,”

“How come he gets the explanation?” Harry asked.

Malfoy looked on him with disgust. “Because I have class, Potter,”

“That doesn’t even have anything to do with-“

“Alright, boys,” Luna’s floaty voice said firmly, “since you seem to both be relatively dressed and ready, take my hands and we’ll go. One each, please.”

Harry shot Malfoy a glare that was thankfully returned with the same vigor. Any trace of the truce of last night was gone, and Harry now knew exactly where he stood.

They each grabbed one of Luna’s hands, and then all three whisked away to the Wizengamot court.

They arrived in an apparition room Harry wasn’t familiar with. The ones he’s been taken to had always looked at least somewhat comfortable, with sofas and nice color schemes, but this room had no furniture to speak of and was painted a permanently dirty beige. Looking down, he noticed it matched the color choices of the carpeted floor. How nice. It smelled of dust and something burnt.

Luna sniffed. “Lovely place,” she said, leading him and Malfoy out of the room. They walked down a musty hallway and finally through a cheap paint-peeled ‘white’ door. Luna opened the door and here was a familiar place. The dark marble courtroom was the picture of elegance and bureaucracy. The little busts of famous Wizarding lawmakers passed judgement over anyone who accidentally looked in their direction. Which was quite difficult to not do, as the busts lines the dome of the circular room. Apparently, they were harsher when you knew their names, which thank Merlin Harry didn’t.

He bet Malfoy knew all their names. He spared a glance at the blonde man.

Malfoy looked like he was going to be sick.

“Alright, there?” Harry asked.

Malfoy rolled his eyes despite the thin sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. “Don’t be a dick, Potter,”

And then the memories Harry hadn’t realized he’d been holding back rushed into his mind.

He was fifteen. Fucking fifteen and being accused of improper use of magic. Umbridge’s little giggle tormented him from behind rows of mugwumps.

He’d gone to Snape’s trial, about a month before he’d left. Trial for a dead man gets pushed to the bottom. Harry’d basically gone in, said some stuff, and the mugwumps has put in a request for a plaque and a portrait.  

It was more than he deserved, Ron had said.

God, Ron.

Ron has gone with him to every single one of the Death Eater trials the months after the Battle. It was nearly three or four times a week for four months, but Ron had understood why Harry had to be there.

“It’s finality. And I’d come even if I hadn’t the faintest clue why you wanted to, you know that, right?” Ron had said.

Harry had said he did.

All the Weasleys had come when Bellatrix was finally tried. They had her buried in a pauper’s grave, her money donated to the restoration efforts at Hogwarts. 

Hermione had also been with him for the Malfoys. It was Lucius first and Harry had testified against him. Lucius om trial was all glib tongue and excuses, and Harry’s testimony prevented any of them from taking root. He had gotten life in prison, possibility of permanent house arrest if conditions necessitated. Ron had said it was lenient, then, and now Harry was wont to agree with him.

A few days later, Harry had testified for Narcissa. She saved his life, he saved hers. Ashe had gotten one year in prison, a permanent Trace to detect Dark magic, and house arrest for five years. 

Malfoy, Draco that is, his trial had been the hardest. Harry had expected to feel satisfaction at the high schoolboy brat brought low, but he didn’t. Malfoy had looked a wreck and Harry had only felt pity. Harry didn’t like feeling pity. So he had stood up when the Supreme Mugwump had asked for dissentions. In the end, Malfoy had gotten six months and house arrest for four years, or one year and completion of a muggle respect and culture re-education program.

Ron had said it was too light, then. But, twat that Malfoy still was, Harry could see that it had somehow been enough.

But after the trials, everything had somehow gone back to normal. Hermione went to school, like always. The Weasleys made delicious sunday dinners, as always. Ginny has loved him, as always.

Harry was the one piece who hadn’t been able to fall back in.

“Having a nice reverie, Potter?” Malfoy’s snide voice jerked him out of the recollection.

They were sitting on a bench, now. Luna was chatting with some old man with a three pointed beard. 

“Pleasant memories?” Malfoy prodded, and his old schoolboy sneer crept back into his face. It almost made his eye bags disappear.

Harry forced himself to smile. “Of course. What else?”

Malfoy turned back to some notebook he was reading. It had a wild chartreuse and vermillion paisley cover, so Harry guessed it was Luna’s. Malfoy was studying it closely. A bit of hair kept falling into his eyes, and Malfoy pushed it back with a distracted movement. Maybe it was subconscious. Malfoy turned the page and squinted at the next sentence, then turned to ask Luna a question.

Harry looked around at the rest of the courtroom. A few of the mugwumps has taken their seats on the side opposite him and Malfoy. And as far as he could tell, he, Malfoy, and Luna were the only non-judiciary people in attendance. 

One of the busts seemed to be saying something to him. It was a middle-aged woman with thick eyebrows and protruding eyes. Her face was mouthing something animatedly, but Harry couldn’t understand anything.

A cool wash of magic flowed over him. He whipped around. Malfoy was there, but before Harry could demand an explanation he hissed:

“Ironing charms. My mother is here.”

Harry really, really wanted to be an embarrassment. Honest, he did. But Narcissa made eye contact with him, cool grey eyes full of surprise, at first. Then she glanced over at Malfoy, then back to Harry. She softened a bit, gave him a bit of a smile. And Harry was so taken aback by the bit of a smile that was really just a slightly softer neutral expression that he forgot about being an embarrassment.

She beckoned in Harry’s direction, and he looked behind him for the other person she was probably actually looking at. But Malfoy nudged him rather hard in the ribs.

“Talk to her, Potter. And don’t make an arse of yourself,” he said.

Harry nodded, stood up, and went to talk with Narcissa Malfoy. And, possibly, the squadron of aurors escorting her.

Her neutral expression, if possible, became warmer. It must have been some trick about the eyes. 

“You wanted to see me, Mrs. Malfoy?” he asked.

She nodded. The aurors abruptly all decided that Mrs. Malfoy was safe with the Chosen One and left. 

“I saw you sitting with Draco,” she waved an arm towards her son, who was currently trying not to make it too obvious that he was straining to hear their conversation. “And I hope you aren’t dallying with him for your own enjoyment,”

Harry almost laughed. Enjoyment and Malfoy did not fit in the same sentence.

“Because he doesn’t take things like this lightly. Although, until recently, I didn’t know about his proclivities and I am nearly as surprised to notice your own, you should know that he is a fiercely loyal, intelligent, and hardworking boy.”

Malfoy? Loyal? Also an interesting choice. But Narcissa spoke with such a stately air that Harry didn’t dare correct her. He figured the best course of action would be to listen to her speech, thank her, and leave. Then just get through the trial, help out if he could, and get back home.

Was Stella alright? He hadn’t fed her since, God, yesterday morning. She’s a strong girl, she’ll survive, but he felt guilty. She didn’t deserve it; she was just a dog.

Narcissa’s voice faded back into his consciousness. “I do warn you, though, if you break his heart, he will not hesitate to destroy you, Savior and life-debt or not. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded distractedly. “Of course, Mrs. Malfoy. I’m doing everything I can. Thank you for your concern.” He went to shake her hand, but she held it out elegantly. Harry compromised by squeezing it lightly.

“And do tell Draco I would like a word with him as well.”

Harry smiled. “I will,”

He walked back to the bench Luna and Malfoy were sitting on. “Your mum wants you.”

He was sure Malfoy would have rolled his eyes if not for his mother’s presence a mere thirty feet away. Wordlessly, he got up and walked over to her.

It was interesting, Harry noted. As Malfoy walked toward his mother, he picked little bits of dust off his jumper and smoothed out invisible wrinkles. Maybe it was his imagination, but Malfoy even seemed to grow more vibrant as he got closer to his mother. The light blue of his jumper became bluer and bounced off his pale skin even more, which suddenly seemed more like ivory and less like ice. His black jeans (Harry still couldn’t get over the fact that Malfoy wore jeans) grew blacker and his posture straighter, and the click-clack of his fancy little shoes grew crisper.

They were standing so Harry could see the profile of both parties. He could see the family resemblance most, now: Narcissa’s balletic posture had clearly raised Malfoy, and their aquiline noses and browbones were twins. She said something and leaned closer, and he blushed fiercely. Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if Malfoy’s hair had turned a deep pink as well.

Then Malfoy seemed to wrap up the conversation, and when Narcissa extended her hand he kissed it.

So that was what Harry had been supposed to do. Shit.

As Malfoy got further away from his mother’s view, the expression on his face changed from pleasant to nearly murderous. Harry wondered if he should pull out his wand.

But when Malfoy took a seat next to him, he softened and even gave Harry a little smile. Their thighs were touching. Those strands of hair were in his eyes again, and Harry had the strange compulsion to push them away. Had Malfoy been confunded or slipped some sort of potion? Harry took a mental list of suspects, but no one had any motive. And he had no idea what sort of potion would require physical contact. 

Malfoy leaned his head close to Harry’s ear.

“Have you eaten or drank anything today?” Harry asked before Malfoy could do anything more.

Malfoy pulled back and gave an annoyed huff. He ignored Harry’s question. People were doing that a lot today. “For some reason, my mother thinks we’re… a thing,”

Harry cocked his head. “A what?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “She thinks we’re dating, Potter. No press should be here, just do a little hand-hold or something and be done with it. Like it or not, for the next few hours, you’re my boyfriend.”

“I feel like we should set up some boundaries or something…”

Malfoy grabbed his hand. “Just pretend you like me, Potter, and it’ll be fine. I don’t like this any more than you do.”

Harry closed his mouth. Malfoy seemed honest, but his hand was rather hot and sweaty. Harry untangled their fingers and wiped his on his shirt. “Whatever, Malfoy,”

Then an idea came to his head. “I’ll be sure to be realistic.”

If Malfoy wanted to fake-date, sure. He had just better be prepared for Harry. What is it that boy at the club had said? Oh, yes. Harry had a dominating sort of personality.

He hooked his leg under Malfoy’s. 

Malfoy looked up, an interesting mix of startled eyes, frowning lips, and red-tinged ears.

xXx

What the hell was Potter playing at?

Mother wouldn’t be able to see under the bench, where his foot was currently trapped by Potter’s.

He looked to Luna for help. Serene eyes met his, and with a slight sweep and a look of utter ‘you’ve-gotten-yourself-into-this,’ she turned her attention back to her notebooks. She was writing with both her left and right hands, identical copies. One was presumably for Hermione.

So no help from Luna.

But isn’t this what Draco had wanted? After all, he hadn’t dissuaded his mother from her mistaken belief in their relationship. It wouldn’t have been difficult to explain the real situation, but Draco had gone along with it. And here they were.

He’d dug his grave, time to fake his death.

Or something.

Draco inched his thigh back to where it could touch Potter’s. And he tried to ignore the spike of energy that ran through his body at the moment of contact.

All the mugwumps were gathered now. Mother had taken a seat at a bench only a couple rows behind them, auror squadron back and seated at her left, right, front, and back.

The Supreme Mugwump tapped his wand, signalling the beginning of discussion. 

“All spectators rise!” He said.

Draco reached down to hold Potter’s hand, give it a reassuring squeeze or something, but Potter beat him to it. He felt a warm calloused hand clasp over his own and became painfully aware of how slender and soft his own hand was. But after Potter had released it, Draco felt a strange sense of loss.

He could hold it again, for appearance’s sake, surely. And quite unconsciously, his hand snaked back into Potter’s.

“Session begins,” The Supreme Mugwump said, and the crashing hum of a tumultuous discussion ensued.

To his right, Luna was raptly listening and taking notes in her notebooks. Draco should be doing the same. He moved to get out his own book, but Potter, on his right, was winning.

He realized this as soon as he saw the knowing little smirk on Potter’s face.

Potter had made this into a game and the prick was winning.

It was a Slytherin idea, almost.

And a little attractive.

No, it wasn’t. It was rude and inconsiderate. Potter was intentionally fucking with Draco, and someone has to put a stop to it. That someone had to be Draco, and his means of stopping had to be by winning the game.

He studied Potter for a second, calculating his next move.

Then Draco put his chin on Potter’s shoulder, and over the din of the mugwumps, whispered, “Thank you for bringing me, love, and for your support through this whole ordeal. I’ll have a gift for you, later,”

As he talked he let his right hand drift to the seam on the outer side of Potter’s jeans, toying with it.

To his dismay, Potter parried and countered.

He simply turned his head, bringing them nearly nose-to-nose.

If Draco wanted to, he could have kissed him. No leaning, no nothing. He found himself afraid to breathe for fear Potter would breathe in his scent a bit too much and Draco would be trapped like a genie in a bottle. Afraid Potter would breathe in Draco’s scent like  he was breathing in Potter’s. It was a dizzyingly clean sort of aroma. Potter smelled of dirt and soup and vegetables and something just so alive. Potter, in short, was intoxicating. What other explanation was there? Draco felt more than a little drunk and it wasn’t even nine-o-clock.

Draco looked through thick, dark eyelashes (had Potter always had such pretty framing for his eyes?) to find the striking front-page Witch Weekly most gorgeous eyes of the month looking right through him, pupils dilated slightly. Draco could feel the inevitable redness of his face and ears but in this moment, he didn’t really care.  
“Your mother must be good at reading lips,” Potter said.

Draco looked back at her. She caught his eye and had a bemused sort of look on her face. He turned back to Potter and he just nodded, too strucken dumb by this scene to do anything else. His gaze slid to Potter’s lips. He had those full, gorgeous kind of lips that begged to be kissed.

That’s when Draco knew he was losing. He drew away, though every irrational bone in his body (he had about 200 of them) begged him not to.

Thank Merlin for the 6 sane ones.

“She can,” Draco said. “But I’m still not sure she wants to see you eye-fucking me like that.”

It was funny to see Potter draw back so quickly, blush even under his dark skin and darker suntan. 

But Potter muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “you’re the one doing any eye-fucking” and Draco felt his skin burn pink.

He narrowed his eyes.

Damn him, Potter was still winning. 

And Draco was going to do anything to make sure that didn’t happen.

The rest of the session passed like so: move, parry, countermove, parry, hit. And so on.

The Supreme Mugwump tapped his wand to end the session and Draco realized he hadn’t listened to any of it. Shit.

He was so fucked. Only half-hard and still completely fucked.

Luna stood, and Draco and Potter followed her. They reached the apparition room in an awkward silence as Draco was contemplating what he’d done.

Honestly, getting drunk on Potter’s… wiles was the least productive thing he could be doing. He could have been taking notes for Hermiones, or listening, or bribing officials, or, or something. 

He suspected Potter was thinking similar thoughts, as his face carried and expression that didn’t suit him well: thoughtfulness.

Oh, thank Merlin Draco’s conscience was back to criticizing Potter.

Luna, bless her, was probably silent because she was thinking about Nargles.

In no time, Luna had dropped them off at Draco’s flat, said a brief ‘ta’ and left.

And Draco and Potter were left standing, facing each other.

“So are we friends, then?” Potter asked.

What?

“Friends?” Draco echoed, not sure if he heard Potter right.

Potter looked back and forth like Draco was crazy for questioning. “Yes, friends. You know, you did something for me, I did something in return. And so on. I’d rather stop keeping track of favors,”

“Keeping… track?” Draco had to be having a stroke.

“Yeah. Friends don’t keep track of favoring. Favors given sought are good, but given unsought are better, and all that,”

Had Potter… quoted..?

No time for that, though, because Potter had his hand held out for a handshake.

Draco stared at it. Then he took it. “Yes, Potter. We can be friends, if that’s what your little Hufflepuff heart wants.”

Potter’s face lit up like a child.

But his firm grip on Draco’s hand felt like the end of a beginning, or the beginning of something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a momentous occasion, fellas!!!! this is chapter 10, i've gotten to page 100 on the google doc i'm writing this on, and i'd like to thank you for almost 100 kudos and over 1000 hits! I really appreciate all the kudos and comments I get, and even if I don't respond to you i promise i'm reading each and every one. 
> 
> Also fun tidbits i've hidden: the pink frilly dress Luna is wearing is based off of Villanelle's from season 2, episode 1 of Killing Eve, and the quote Harry uses is from Tweflth Night (but I'm not telling the original context!). And of course, there are others, but those are my faves. 
> 
> seriously though, thank you all for your support and i'll have the next chapter coming within two weeks (no schedule we die like men)!


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